n 


THE 

NINE-TENTHS 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

MCMXI 


COPYRIGHT.  I9H.   BY   HARPER   ft    BROTHERS 

RINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 

PUBLISHED   SEPTEMBER.    1911 


TO 
THE  MEMORY 

OF 
MY  FATHER 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 
THE   DREAM 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  PRINTERY i 

II.  THE  EAST   EIGHTY-FIRST   STREET   FIRE      .     .  13 

III.  THE  GOOD  PEOPLE 21 

IV.  GOLDEN  OCTOBER 40 

V.  MYRA  AND  JOE 61 

VI.  MARTY  BRIGGS 77 

VII.  LAST  OP  JOE  BLAIN  AND  His  MEN   ....  88 
VIII    THE  WIND  IN  THE  OAKS  101 


PART  II 

THE   TEST 

I.  BEGINNINGS 109 

II.  THE  NINE-TENTHS 119 

III.  OTHERS:    AND  SALLY  HEFFER 137 

IV.  OTHERS:    AND  THEODORE  MARRIN      ....  164 

V.  FORTY-FIVE  TREACHEROUS  MEN 180 

VI.  A  FIGHT  IN  GOOD  EARNEST 194 

VII.  OF  THE  THIRTY  THOUSAND        212 

VIII.  THE  ARREST 237 

IX.  RHONA 248 

X.  THE  TRIAL 259 

XL      THE  WORKHOUSE 274 

XII      CONFIDENT  MORNING "  .     .  285 

XIII.  THE  CITY 313 


PART  I 
THE    DREAM 


THE  NINE-TENTHS 


THE    PRINTERY 

THAT  windy  autumn  noon  the  young  girls  of 
the  hat  factory  darted  out  of  the  loft  build- 
ing and  came  running  back  with  cans  of  coffee, 
and  bags  of  candy,  and  packages  of  sandwiches 
and  cakes.  They  frisked  hilariously  before  the 
wind,  with  flying  hair  and  sparkling  eyes,  and 
crowded  into  the  narrow  entrance  with  the 
grimy  pressmen  of  the  eighth  floor.  Over  and 
over  again  the  one  frail  elevator  was  jammed 
with  the  laughing  crowd  and  shot  up  to  the  hat 
factory  on  the  ninth  floor  and  back. 

The  men  smoked  cigarettes  as  the  girls  chat- 
tered and  flirted  with  them,  and  the  talk  was  fast 
and  free. 

At  the  eighth  floor  the  pressmen  got  off,  still 
smoking,  for  "  Mr.  Joe  "  was  still  out.  Even  after 
the  presses  started  up  they  went  on  surrepti- 
tiously, though  near  one  group  of  them  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  printery  lay  a  careless  heap  of 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

cotton  waste,  thoroughly  soaked  with  machine- 
oil.  This  heap  had  been  passed  by  the  factory 
inspector  unnoticed,  the  pressmen  took  it  for 
granted,  and  Joe,  in  his  slipshod  manner,  gave 
it  no  thought.  Later  that  very  afternoon  as  the 
opening  of  the  hall  door  rang  a  bell  sharply  and 
Joe  came  in,  the  men  swiftly  and  guiltily  flung 
their  lighted  cigarettes  to  the  floor  and  stepped 
them  out  or  crumpled  them  with  stinging  fingers 
in  their  pockets.  But  Joe  did  not  even  notice 
the  clinging  cigarette  smell  that  infected  the 
strange  printery  atmosphere,  that  mingled  with 
its  delightful  odor  of  the  freshly  printed  page, 
damp,  bitter-sweet,  new.  Once  Marty  Briggs, 
the  fat  foreman,  had  spoken  to  Joe  of  the  break- 
ing of  the  "No  Smoking"  rule,  but  Joe  had  said, 
with  his  luminous,  soft  smile: 

"Marty,  the  boys  are  only  human — they  see 
me  smoking  in  the  private  office!" 

Up  and  down  the  long,  narrow,  eighth-floor 
loft  the  great  intricate  presses  stood  in  shadowy 
bulk,  and  the  intense  gray  air  was  spotted  here 
and  there  with  a  dangling  naked  electric  bulb, 
under  whose  radiance  the  greasy,  grimy  men 
came  and  went,  pulling  out  heaps  of  paper,  slid- 
ing in  sheets,  tinkering  at  the  machinery.  Over- 
head whirled  and  traveled  a  complex  system  of 
wheels  and  belting,  whirring,  thumping,  and 
turning,  and  the  floor,  the  walls,  the  very  door 
trembled  with  the  shaking  of  the  presses  and  made 
the  body  of  every  man  there  pleasantly  quiver. 


•9k 


THE    PRINTERY 

The  stir  of  the  hat  factory  on  the  floor  above 
mingled  with  the  stir  of  the  presses,  and  Joe  loved 
it  all,  even  as  he  loved  the  presence  of  the  young 
girls  about  him.  Some  of  these  girls  were  Bo- 
hemians, others  Jewish,  a  few  American.  They 
gave  to  the  gaunt,  smoky  building  a  touch  as  of  a 
wild  rose  on  a  gray  rock-heap — a  touch  of  color 
and  of  melody.  Joe,  at  noon,  would  purposely 
linger  near  the  open  doorway  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
their  bright  faces  and  a  snatch  of  their  careless 
laughter.  Some  of  the  girls  knew  him  and 
would  nod  to  him  on  the  street — their  hearts 
went  out  to  the  tall,  homely,  sorrowful  fellow. 

But  his  printer y  was  his  chief  passion.  It 
absorbed  him  by  its  masterful  stress,  overwhelm- 
ing every  sense,  trembling,  thundering,  clanking, 
flashing,  catching  his  eye  with  turning  wheels  and 
chewing  press-mouths,  and  enveloping  him  in 
something  tremulously  homelike  and  elemental. 
Even  that  afternoon  as  Joe  stood  at  the  high  wall- 
desk  near  the  door,  under  a  golden  bulb  of  light, 
figuring  on  contracts  with  Marty  Briggs,  he  felt 
his  singular  happiness  of  belonging.  Here  he 
had  spent  the  work  hours  of  the  last  ten  years; 
he  was  a  living  part  of  this  living  press-room; 
this  was  as  native  to  him  as  the  sea  to  a  fish. 
And  glancing  about  the  crowded  gray  room, 
everything  seemed  so  safe,  secure,  unending,  as 
if  it  would  last  forever. 

Up  to  that  very  evening  Joe  had  been  merely 
an  average  American — clean  of  mind  and  body, 

3 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

cheerful,  hard-working,  democratic,  willing  to 
live  and  let  live,  and  striving  with  all  his  heart 
and  soul  for  success.  His  father  had  served  in 
the  Civil  War  and  came  back  to  New  York  with 
his  right  sleeve  pinned  up,  an  emaciated  and  sick 
man.  Then  Joe's  mother  had  overridden  the  less 
imperious  will  of  the  soldier  and  married  him, 
and  they  had  settled  down  in  the  city.  Henry 
Elaine  learned  to  write  with  his  left  hand  and 
became  a  clerk.  It  was  the  only  work  he  could 
do.  Then,  as  his  health  became  worse  and 
worse,  he  was  ordered  to  live  in  the  country  (that 
was  in  1868),  and  as  the  young  couple  had 
scarcely  any  money  they  were  glad  to  get  a  little 
shanty  on  the  stony  hill  which  is  now  the  corner 
of  Eighty-first  Street  and  Lexington  Avenue  and 
is  the  site  of  a  modern  apartment-house.  But 
Joe's  mother  was  glad  even  of  a  shanty;  she 
made  an  adventure  of  it;  she  called  herself  the 
wife  of  a  pioneer,  and  said  that  they  were  making 
a  clearing  in  the  Western  wilderness. 

Here  in  1872  Joe  was  born,  and  he  was  hardly 
old  enough  to  crawl  about  when  his  father  became 
too  sick  to  work,  and  his  mother  had  to  leave 
''her  two  men"  home  together  and  go  out  and 
do  such  work  as  she  could.  This  consisted 
largely  in  reading  to  old  ladies  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, though  sometimes  she  had  to  do  fancy 
needlework  and  sometimes  take  in  washing.  Of 
these  last  achievements  she  was  justly  proud, 
though  it  made  Henry  Elaine  wince  with  shame. 


THE   PRINTERY 

Joe  was  only  six  years  old  when  his  father  died, 
and  from  then  on  he  and  his  mother  fought  it  out 
together.  The  boy  entered  the  public  school  on 
Seventy-ninth  Street,  and  grew  amazingly,  his 
mind  keeping  pace.  He  was  a  splendid  absorber 
of  good  books;  and  his  mother  taught  him  her 
poets  and  they  went  through  English  literature 
together. 

Yorkville  sprang  up,  a  rubber-stamped  neigh- 
borhood, of  which  each  street  was  a  brownstone 
duplicate  of  the  next.  The  rocky  hill  became 
valuable  and  went  for  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
of  which  three  thousand  had  to  be  deducted  for 
the  mortgage.  Then  Joe  graduated  from  high 
school,  and,  lusting  for  life,  took  a  clerk's  job 
with  one  of  the  big  express  companies.  He  held 
this  for  two  years,  and  learned  an  interesting  fact 
—namely,  that  a  clerk's  life  began  at  5  P.M.  and 
ended  at  8.30  A.M.  In  between  the  clerk  was  a 
dead  but  skilled  machine  that  did  the  work  of  a 
child.  He  learned,  besides,  that  advancement 
was  slow  and  only  for  a  few,  and  he  saw  these 
few,  men  past  middle  life,  still  underlings.  A 
man  of  forty-five  with  a  salary  of  three  thousand 
was  doing  remarkably  well,  and,  as  a  rule,  he 
was  a  dried-up,  negative,  timid  creature. 

Out  of  all  this  he  went  like  a  stick  of  dynamite, 
took  the  seventeen  thousand  dollars  and  went 
into  his  father's  business  of  printing.  Joe  was 
shrewd,  despite  his  open  nature;  he  never  liked 
to  be  ' '  done ' ' ;  and  so  he  made  money  and  made 

5 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

it  fast.  Besides  his  printing  he  did  some  specu- 
lating in  real  estate,  and  so  at  thirty-eight  he  was 
a  successful  business  man  and  could  count  him- 
self worth  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  dollars. 
He  made  little  use  of  this  money;  his  was  a 
simple,  serious,  fun-loving  nature,  and  all  his 
early  training  had  made  for  plain  living  and 
economy.  And  so  for  years  he  and  his  mother 
had  boarded  in  a  brownstone  boarding-house  in 
the  quiet  block  west  of  Lexington  Avenue  up  the 
street.  They  spent  very  little  on  themselves. 
In  fact,  Joe  was  too  busy.  He  was  all  absorbed 
in  the  printery — he  worked  early  and  late — and 
of  recent  years  in  the  stress  of  business  his  fine 
relationship  with  his  mother  had  rather  thinned 
out.  They  began  leading  separated  lives;  they 
began  shutting  themselves  away  from  each  other. 
And  so  here  he  was,  thirty-eight  years  of  his 
life  gone,  and  what  had  it  all  been  ?  Merely  the 
narrow,  steady,  city  man's  life  —  work,  rest,  a 
little  recreation,  sleep.  Outside  his  mother,  his 
employees,  his  customers,  and  the  newspapers  he 
knew  little  of  the  million-crowded  life  of  the  city 
about  him.  He  used  but  one  set  of  streets  daily; 
he  did  not  penetrate  the  vast  areas  of  existence 
that  cluttered  the  acres  of  stone  in  every  direc- 
tion. There  stood  the  city,  a  great  fact,  and  even 
that  afternoon  as  the  wild  autumn  wind  blew 
from  the  west  and  rapid,  ragged  cloud  masses 
passed  huge  shadows  over  the  ship-swept  Hud- 
son, darkened  briefly  the  hurrying  streets,  ex- 

6 


THE    PRINTERY 

tinguished  for  a  moment  the  glitter  of  a  sky- 
scraper and  went  gray-footed  over  the  flats  of 
Long  Island,  even  at  that  moment  terrific  forces, 
fierce  aggregations  of  man-power,  gigantic  blasts 
of  tamed  electricity,  gravitation,  fire,  and  steam 
and  steel,  made  the  hidden  life  of  the  city  cy- 
clonic. And  in  that  mesh  of  nature  and  man  the 
human  comedy  went  on  —  there  was  love  and 
disaster,  frolic  and  the  fall  of  a  child,  the  boy 
buying  candy  in  a  shop,  the  woman  on  the  operat- 
ing-table in  the  hospital.  Who  could  measure 
that  swirl  of  life  and  whither  it  was  leading? 
But  who  could  live  in  the  heart  of  it  all  and  be 
unaware  of  it? 

Yet  Joe's  eyes  were  unseeing.  Children  played 
on  the  street,  people  walked  and  talked,  the 
toilers  were  busy  at  their  tasks,  and  that  was  all 
he  knew  or  saw.  And  yet  of  late  he  had  a  new, 
unexpected  vista  of  life.  Like  many  men,  Joe 
had  missed  women.  There  was  his  mother,  but 
no  one  else.  He  was  rather  shy,  and  he  was  too 
busy.  But  during  the  last  few  months  a 
teacher — Myra  Craig — had  been  coming  to  the 
printery  to  have  some  work  done  for  the  school. 
She  had  strangely  affected  Joe — sprung  an 
electricity  on  him  that  troubled  him  profoundly. 
He  could  not  forget  her,  nor  wipe  her  image 
from  his  brain,  nor  rid  his  ears  of  the  echoes  of 
her  voice.  He  went  about  feeling  that  possibly 
he  had  underrated  poetry  and  music.  Romance, 
led  by  Myra's  hand,  had  entered  the  dusty  print- 

7 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

ery  and  Joe  began  to  feel  like  a  youngster  who 
had  been  blind  to  life. 

Outside  the  world  was  blowing  away  on  the 
gray  wings  of  the  twilight,  blowing  away  with 
eddies  of  dust  that  swept  the  sparkling  street- 
lamps,  and  the  air  was  sharp  with  a  tang  of 
homesickness  and  autumn.  The  afternoon  was 
quietly  waning,  up -stairs  the  hat-makers,  and 
here  the  printers,  were  toiling  in  a  crowded,  satis- 
fying present,  and  Joe  stood  there  musing,  a  tall, 
gaunt  man,  the  upstart  tufts  of  his  tousled  hair 
glistening  in  the  light  overhead.  His  face  was 
the  homeliest  that  ever  happened.  The  mouth 
was  big  and  big-lipped,  the  eyes  large,  dark, 
melancholy  and  slightly  sunken,  and  the  mask 
was  a  network  of  wrinkles.  His  hands  were 
large,  mobile,  and  homely.  But  about  him  was 
an  air  of  character  and  thought,  of  kindliness 
and  camaraderie,  of  very  human  nature.  He 
stood  there  wishing  that  Myra  would  come.  The 
day  seemed  to  demand  it ;  the  wild  autumn  cried 
out  for  men  to  seek  the  warmth  and  forgetful 
glory  of  love. 

He  could  get  some  nice  house  and  make  a 
home  for  her ;  he  could  take  her  out  of  the  grind 
and  deadliness  ^of  school-work  and  make  her 
happy;  there  would  be  little  children  in  that 
house.  He  thought  she  loved  him;  yes,  he  was 
quite  sure.  Then  what  hindrance?  There,  at 
quarter  to  five  that  strange  afternoon,  Joe  felt 
that  he  had  reached  the  heights  of  success,  and 

8 


THE    PRINTERY 

he  saw  no  obstacle  to  long  years  of  solid  advance. 
He  had  before  his  eyes  the  evidence  of  his  wealth 
—the  great,  flapping  presses,  the  bending,  mov- 
ing men.  If  anything  was  sure  and  solid  in  this 
world,  these  things  were. 

He  felt  sure  Myra  would  come.  She  had  not 
been  around  for  a  week,  and,  anticipating  a  new 
meeting  with  her,  he  felt  very  young,  like  a  very 
young  man  for  the  first  time  aware  of  the  strange 
loveliness  of  night,  its  haunting  and  hidden 
beauties,  its  women  calling  from  afar.  It  all 
seemed  wild  and  impossible  romance.  It  smote 
his  heart-strings  and  set  them  trembling  with 
music.  He  wondered  why  he  had  been  so 
stupid  all  these  years  and  evaded  life,  evaded 
joys  that  should  have  been  his  twenty  years 
earlier.  Now  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  youth 
had  passed  from  him  defeated  of  its  splendor. 

If  Myra  came  to-day  he  would  tell  her.  The 
very  thought  gave  his  heart  a  lovely  quake  of 
fear,  a  trembling  that  communicated  itself  to 
his  hands  and  down  his  legs,  a  throbbing  joy 
dashed  with  a  strange  tremor.  And  then  as  he 
wanted,  as  he  wished  for,  the  door  beside  him 
opened  and  the  bell  sharply  sounded. 

She  stood  there,  very  small,  very  slight,  but 
quite  charming  in  her  neat,  lace-touched  clothes. 
A  fringe  at  the  wrist,  a  bunch  at  the  neck,  struck 
her  off  as  some  one  delicate  and  sensitive,  and 
the  face  strengthened  this  impression.  It  was 
long  and  oval,  with  a  narrow  woman-forehead 

9 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

cut  off  by  a  curve  of  dark  hair;  the  mouth  was 
small  and  sweet ;  the  nose  narrow ;  the  eyes  large, 
clear  gray,  penetrating.  Under  the  gracefully 
modeled  felt  hat  she  stood  quite  complete,  quite 
a  personality.  One  instantly  guessed  that  she 
was  an  aristocrat  by  birth  and  breeding.  But 
her  age  was  doubtful,  seeming  either  more  or  less 
than  the  total,  which  was  thirty- two. 

There  she  stood,  glancing  at  Joe  with  a  breath- 
less eagerness.  He  turned  pale,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  whirl  of  fire  in  his  heart. 
She  had  come  to  him;  he  wanted  to  gather  her 
close  and  bear  her  off  through  the  wild  autumn 
weather,  off  to  the  wilderness.  He  reached  out 
a  hand  and  inclosed  a  very  cold  and  very  lit- 
tle one. 

"Why,  you're  frozen!"  he  said,  with  a  queer 
laugh. 

"Oh — not  much!"  she  gasped.  She  held  her 
leather  bag  under  her  arm  and  took  off  her 
gloves.  Then  she  loosened  her  coat,  and  gave 
a  sigh. 

He  gazed  at  her  warm-tinted  cheek,  almost 
losing  himself,  and  then  murmured,  suddenly: 

"More  school  stuff?" 

-She  made  a  grimace  and  tried  to  speak  lightly, 
but  her  voice  almost  failed  her. 

"Class  6-B,  let  me  tell  you,  is  giving  the 
'Landing  of  the  Pilgrims,'  and  every  blessed 
little  pilgrim  is  Bohemian.  Here's  the  pro- 
gramme!" 

10 


THE    PRINTERY 

With  trembling  fingers  she  opened  her  bag  and 
handed  him  some  loose  sheets.  He  bent  over 
them  at  once. 

"Now  make  it  cheap,  Mr.  Blaine,"  she  said, 
severely.  "Rock  bottom!  Or  I'll  give  the  job 
to  some  one  else." 

Joe  laughed  strangely. 

"How  many  copies?" 

"One  thousand." 

He  spoke  as  if  in  fear. 

"Fifty  cents  too  much?" 

Myra  laughed. 

"I  don't  want  the  school  to  ruin  you!" 

He  said  nothing  further,  and  in  the  awkward 
silence  she  began  pitifully  to  button  her  coat. 
There  was  no  reason  for  staying. 

Then  suddenly  he  spoke,  huskily: 

"Don't  go,  Miss  Craig.  .  .  ." 

"You  want  ..."  she  began. 

He  leaned  very  close. 

"I  want  to  take  a  walk  with  you.    May  I  ?" 

She  became  dead  white,  and  the  terror  of  na- 
ture's resistless  purpose  with  men  and  women, 
that  awful  gravitation,  that  passion  of  creation 
that  links  worlds  and  uses  men  and  women,  went 
through  them  both. 

"I  may?"  he  was  whispering. 

Her  "Yes"  was  almost  inaudible. 

So  Joe  put  on  his  coat,  and  slapped  over  his 
head  a  queer  gray  slouch  hat,  and  called  over 
Marty. 

ii 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I  won't  be  back  to-night,  Marty!"  he  said. 

Then,  at  the  door  he  gave  one  last  glance  at  his 
life-work,  the  orderly  presses,  the  harnessed  men, 
and  left  it  all  as  if  it  must  surely  be  there  when  he 
returned.  He  was  proud  at  that  moment  to  be 
Joe  Blaine,  with  his  name  in  red  letters  on  the 
glass  door,  and  under  his  name  "Power  Printer." 
His  wife  would  be  able  to  hold  her  head  high. 

The  frail  elevator  took  them  clanking,  bump- 
ing, slipping,  down,  down  past  eight  floors,  to 
the  street  level.  The  elevator  boy,  puffing  at  his 
cigarette,  remarked,  amiably: 

"Gee!  it's  a  windy  day.  It's  gittin'  on  to 
winter,  all  right.  .  .  .  Good-night,  Mr.  Blaine!" 

"Good-night,  Tom,"  said  Joe. 


II 

THE   EAST   EIGHTY-FIRST   STREET   FIRE 

THEY  emerged  in  all  the  magic  wildness  of 
an  autumn  night  and  walked  east  on 
Eighty- first  Street.  The  loft  building  was  near 
the  corner  of  Second  Avenue.  They  passed  un- 
der the  elevated  structure,  cutting  through  a 
hurrying  throng  of  people. 

"Take  my  arm,"  cried  Joe. 

She  took  it,  trembling.  They  made  an  odd 
couple  passing  along  between  the  squalid  red- 
brick tenements,  now  in  shadow,  now  in  the  glow 
of  some  little  shop  window,  now  under  a  sparkling 
lamp.  At  Avenue  A  they  went  south  to  Seventy- 
ninth  Street,  and  again  turned  east,  passing  a 
row  of  bright  model  tenements,  emerging  at  last 
at  the  strange  riverside. 

Down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  unpaved  waste 
they  walked,  or  rather  floated,  so  strange  and 
uplifted  and  glorious  they  felt,  blown  and  carried 
bodily  with  the  exultant  west  wind,  and  they 
only  stopped  when  they  reached  the  wooden 
margin,  where  an  old  scow,  half  laden  with 
brick,  was  moored  fast  with  ropes.  This  scow 
heaved  up  and  down  with  the  motion  of  the 

13 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

rolling  waters;  the  tight  ropes  grated;  the 
water  swashed  melodiously. 

The  man  and  woman  seemed  alone  there,  a 
black  little  lump  in  the  vast  spaces,  for  behind 
them  the  city  receded  beyond  empty  little  hill- 
sides and  there  was  nothing  some  distance  north 
and  south. 

"Look,"  said  Joe,  "look  at  the  tide!" 

It  was  running  north,  a  wide  expanse  of  rolling 
waters  from  their  feet  to  Blackwells  Island  in 
the  east,  all  hurling  swiftly  like  a  billowing  floor 
of  gray.  Here  and  there  whitecaps  spouted. 
On  Blackwells  Island  loomed  the  gray  hospitals 
and  workhouses,  and  at  intervals  on  the  shore 
sparkled  a  friendly  light. 

"But  see  the  bridge,"  exclaimed  Myra. 

She  pointed  far  south,  where  across  the  last  of 
the  day  ran  a  slightly  arched  string  of  lights,  bind- 
ing shore  with  shore.  On  the  New  York  side, 
and  nearer,  rose  the  high  chimneys  of  mills,  and 
from  these  a  purplish  smoke  swirled  thickly, 
melting  into  the  gray  weather. 

And  it  seemed  to  Joe  at  that  wild  moment  that 
nothing  was  as  beautiful  as  smoking  chimneys. 
They  meant  so  much — labor,  human  beings,  fire, 
warmth. 

And  over  all — river,  bridge,  chimneys,  Black- 
wells  Island,  and  the  throbbing  city  behind  them 
— rose  the  immense  gray-clouded  heavens.  A 
keen  smell  of  the  far  ocean  came  to  their  nostrils 
and  the  air  was  clear  and  exhilarant.  Then,  as 

14 


EIGHTY-FIRST    STREET    FIRE 

they  watched,  suddenly  a  tug  lashed  between 
enormous  flat  boats  on  which  were  red  freight- 
cars,  swept  north  with  the  tide.  A  thin  glaze  of 
heat  breathed  up  from  the  tug's  pipe;  it  was 
moving  without  its  engines,  and  the  sight  was 
unbelievable.  The  whole  huge  mass  simply  shot 
the  river,  racing  by  them. 

And  then  the  very  magic  of  life  was  theirs. 
The  world  fell  from  them,  the  dusty  scales  of 
facts,  the  complex  intricacies  of  existence  melted 
away.  They  were  very  close,  and  the  keen,  yell- 
ing wind  was  wrapping  them  closer.  Vision 
filled  the  gray  air,  trembled  up  from  the  river  to 
the  heavens.  They  rose  from  all  the  chaos  like 
two  white  flames  blown  by  the  wind  together — 
they  were  two  gigantic  powers  of  the  earth  pre- 
paring like  gods  for  new  creation.  In  that 
throbbing  moment  each  became  the  world  to 
the  other,  and  love,  death  -  strong,  shot  their 
hearts. 

He  turned,  gazing  strangely  at  her  pale,  eager, 
breathless  face. 

"I  want  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"Yes,"  she  breathed. 

He  opened  his  lips,  and  the  sound  that  escaped 
seemed  like  a  sob. 

"Myra!" 

And  then  at  the  sound  of  her  name  she  was  all 
woman,  all  love.  She  cried  out: 

"Joe!" 

And  they  flung  their  arms  round  each  other. 
15 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

She  sobbed  there,  overcome  with  the  yearning, 
the  glory,  the  beatitude  of  that  moment. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  "how  I  love  you!  .  .  . 
Myra  .  .  ." 

"Joe,  Joe — I  couldn't  have  stood  it  longer!" 

All  of  life,  all  of  the  past,  all  of  the  million 
years  of  earth  melted  into  that  moment,  that  mo- 
ment when  a  man  and  a  woman,  mingled  into 
one,  stood  in  the  heart  of  the  wonder,  the  love, 
the  purpose  of  nature — a  mad,  wild,  incoherent 
half-hour,  a  secret  ecstasy  in  the  passing  of  the 
twilight,  in  the  swing  of  the  wind  and  the  breath 
of  the  sea. 

"Come  home  to  my  mother,"  cried  Joe. 
"Come  home  with  me!" 

They  turned  .  .  .  and  Myra  was  a  strange 
new  woman,  tender,  grave,  and  wrought  of  all 
lovely  power,  her  face,  in  the  last  of  the  light, 
mellow  and  softly  glowing  with  a  heightened 
woman-power. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  see  Joe's  mother." 

It  was  Joe's  last  step  to  success.  Now  he  had 
all — his  work,  his  love.  He  felt  powerfully  mas- 
culine, triumphant,  glorious. 

Night  had  fallen,  and  on  the  darkness  broke 
and  sparkled  a  thousand  lights  in  tenement 
windows  and  up  the  shadowy  streets — every- 
where homes,  families;  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren busily  living  together;  everywhere  love. 
Joe  glanced,  his  eyes  filling.  Then  he  paused. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  said  in  a  changed  voice. 
16 


EIGHTY-FIRST    STREET    FIRE 

Over  against  the  west,  a  little  to  the  north,  the 
gray  heavens  were  visible — a  lightning  seemed  to 
run  over  them — a  ghastly  red  lightning — sharply 
silhouetting  the  chimneyed  housetops. 

"What  is  it?"  said  Myra. 

He  gazed  at  it,  transfixed. 

"That's  a  fire  ...  a  big  fire."  Then  sud- 
denly his  face,  in  the  pale  light  of  a  street-lamp, 
became  chalky  white  and  knotted.  He  could 
barely  speak.  "It  must  be  on  Eighty-first  or 
Eighty-second  Street." 

She  spoke  shrilly,  clutching  his  arm. 

"Not  ...  the  loft?" 

"Oh,  it  can't  be!"  he  cried,  in  an  agony. 
"But  come  .  .  .  hurry  .  .  ." 

They  started  toward  Eighty-first  Street  up 
Avenue  A.  They  walked  fast;  and  it  seemed 
suddenly  to  Joe  that  he  had  been  dancing  on  a 
thin  crust,  and  that  the  crust  had  broken  and  he 
was  falling  through.  He  turned  and  spoke 
harshly : 

"You  must  run!" 

Fear  made  their  feet  heavy  as  they  sped,  and 
their  hearts  seemed  to  be  exploding  in  their 
breasts.  They  felt  as  if  that  fire  were  consum- 
ing them;  as  if  its  tongues  of  flame  licked  them 
up.  And  so  they  came  to  the  corner  of  Eighty- 
first  Street  and  turned  it,  and  looked,  and  stopped. 

Joe  spoke  hoarsely. 

"It's  burning;  .  .  .  it's  the  loft.  .  .  .  The 
printery's  on  fire.  ..." 

17 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Beyond  the  elevated  structure  at  Second 
Avenue  the  loft  building  rose  like  a  grotesque 
gigantic  torch  in  the  night.  Swirls  of  flame 
rolled  from  the  upper  three  stories  upward  in  a 
mane  of  red,  tossing  volumes  of  smoke,  and  the 
wild  wind,  combing  the  fire  from  the  west, 
rained  down  cinders  and  burned  papers  on  Joe 
and  Myra  as  they  rushed  up  the  street.  Every 
window  was  blankly  visible  in  the  extreme  light, 
streams  of  water  played  on  the  walls,  and  the 
night  throbbed  with  the  palpitating,  pounding 
fire-engines. 

And  it  seemed  to  Joe  as  if  life  were  torn  to 
bits,  as  if  the  world's  end  had  come.  It  was  un- 
believable, impossible — his  eyes  belied  his  brain. 
That  all  those  years  of  labor  and  dream  and 
effort  were  going  up  in  flame  and  smoke  seemed 
preposterous.  And  only  a  few  moments  before 
he  and  Myra  had  stood  on  the  heights  of  the 
world;  had  their  mad  moment;  and  even  then 
his  life  was  being  burned  away  from  him.  He 
felt  the  hoarse  sobs  lifting  up  through  his  throat. 

They  reached  Second  Avenue,  and  were 
stopped  by  the  vast  swaying  crowd  of  people,  a 
density  that  could  not  be  cloven.  They  went 
around  about  it  frantically;  they  bore  along  the 
edge  of  the  crowd,  beside  the  houses;  they 
wedged  past  one  stoop;  they  were  about  to  get 
past  the  next,  when,  in  the  light  of  the  lamp,  Joe 
saw  a  strange  sight.  Crouched  on  that  stoop, 
with  clothes  torn,  with  hair  loosed  down  her  back, 

18 


EIGHTY-FIRST    STREET    FIRE 

her  face  white,  her  lips  gasping,  sat  one  of  the 
hat  factory  girls.  It  was  Fannie  Lemick.  Joe 
knew  her.  And  no  one  seemed  to  notice  her. 
The  crowd  was  absorbed  in  other  things. 

And  even  at  that  moment  Joe  heard  the  dire 
clanging  of  ambulances,  and  an  awful  horror 
dizzied  his  brain.  No,  no,  not  that!  He 
clutched  the  stoop-post,  leaned,  cried  weirdly: 

"Fannie!     Fannie!" 

She  gazed  up  at  him.  Then  she  recognized 
him  and  gave  a  terrible  sob. 

"Mr.  Joe!     Oh,  how  did  you  get  out?" 

"I  wasn't  there,"  he  breathed.  "Fannie! 
what's  happened?  .  .  .  None  of  the  girls  .  .  ." 

"You  didn't  know?"  she  gasped. 

He  felt  the  life  leaving  his  body ;  it  seemed  im- 
possible. 

"No  ..."  he  heard  himself  saying.  "Tell 
me  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  him  with  dreadful  eyes  and 
spoke  in  a  low,  deadly,  monotonous  voice: 

"The  fire-escape  was  no  good;  it  broke  under 
some  of  the  girls ;  .  .  .  they  fell;  .  .  .  we  jammed 
the  hall ;  .  .  .  some  of  the  girls  jumped  down  the 
elevator  shaft;  .  .  .  they  couldn't  get  out  .  .  . 
and  Miss  Marks,  the  forelady,  was  trying  to  keep 
us  in  order.  .  .  .  She  stayed  there  .  .  .  and  I 
ran  down  the  stairs,  and  dropped  in  the  smoke, 
and  crawled  .  .  .  but  when  I  got  to  the  street 
...  I  looked  back  .  .  .  Mr.  Joe  .  .  .  the  girls 
were  jumping  from  the  windows.  ..." 

19 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Joe  seized  the  stoop-post.  His  body  seemed 
torn  in  two;  he  began  to  reel. 

"From  the  ninth  floor,"  he  muttered,  "and 
couldn't  get  out.  .  .  .  And  I  wasn't  there!  Oh, 
God,  why  wasn't  I  killed  there!" 


Ill 

THE   GOOD   PEOPLE 

JOE  broke  through  the  fire  line.  He  stepped 
like  a  calcium-lit  figure  over  the  wet,  gleam- 
ing pavement,  over  the  snaky  hose,  and  among 
the  rubber- sheathed,  glistening  firemen,  gave  one 
look  at  the  ghastly  heap  on  the  sidewalk,  and 
then  became,  like  the  host  of  raving  relatives 
and  friends  and  lovers,  a  man  insane.  It  was 
as  if  the  common  surfaces  of  life  —  the  busy 
days,  the  labor,  the  tools,  the  houses — had  been 
drawn  aside  like  a  curtain  and  revealed  the 
terrific  powers  that  engulf  humanity. 

In  his  ears  sounded  the  hoarse  cries  of  the 
firemen,  the  shout  of  the  sprayed  water,  the 
crash  of  axes,  the  shatter  of  glass.  It  was  too 
magnificent  a  spectacle,  nature,  like  a  Nero,  using 
humanity  to  make  a  sublime  torch  in  the  night. 
And  through  his  head  pulsed  and  pulsed  the  de- 
fiant throb  of  the  engines.  Cinders  fell,  sticks, 
papers,  and  Joe  saw  fitfully  the  wide  ring  of 
hypnotized  faces.  It  was  as  if  the  world  had 
fallen  into  a  pit,  and  human  beings  looked  on 
each  other  aghast. 

"Get  back  there!"  cried  a  burly  policeman. 

21 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Joe  resisted  his  shouldering. 

''I'm  Mr.  Elaine;  .  .  .  it's  my  loft  burning. 
I'm  looking  for  my  men.  .  .  ." 

"Go  to  the  morgue  then,"  snapped  the  police- 
man. "A  fire  line's  a  fire  line." 

Joe  was  pushed  back,  and  as  the  crowd  closed 
about  him,  a  soft  pressure  of  clothing,  men  and 
women,  he  became  aware  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
lost  his  head.  He  pulled  himself  together;  he 
told  himself  that  he,  a  human  being,  was  greater 
than  anything  that  could  happen;  that  he  must 
set  his  jaw  and  fight  and  brave  his  way  through 
the  facts.  He  must  get  to  work. 

Myra  clutched  his  sleeve.  He  turned  to  her  a 
face  of  death,  but  she  brought  her  wide  eyes 
close  to  him. 

"Joe!     Joe!" 

"Myra,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  suddenly  in  that 
moment  getting  a  sharp  revelation  of  his  changed 
life.  "I  may  never  see  you  again.  I  belong  to 
those  dead  girls."  He  paused.  "Go  home  .  .  . 
do  that  for  me,  anyway." 

He  had  passed  beyond  her;  there  was  no  op- 
posing him. 

"I'll  go,"  she  murmured. 

Then,  dizzily,  she  reeled  back,  and  was  lost  in 
the  crowd. 

And  then  he  set  to  work.  He  was  strangely 
calm  now,  numb,  unfeeling.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  experience,  and  the  overwrought  brain 
refused  any  new  emotions.  So  stupendous  was 

22 


THE    GOOD    PEOPLE 

the  catastrophe  that  it  left  him  finally  calm, 
ready,  and  eagerly  awake.  He  stepped  gently 
through  the  crowd,  searching,  and  found  John 
Rann,  the  pressman.  John  wept  like  a  little  boy 
when  they  met. 

"Marty  got  out  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  most  of  us 
did  .  .  .  but  Eddie  Baker,  Morty,  and  Sam 
Bender.  ...  It  was  the  cotton  waste,  Mr.  Joe, 
and  the  cigarettes.  ..." 

Joe  put  his  arm  about  the  rough  man. 

"Never  mind,  Johnny.  ...  Go  home  to  the 
kiddies.  .  .  ." 

There  was  so  little  he  could  do.  He  went  to  a 
few  homes  he  knew,  he  went  to  the  hospital  to 
ask  after  the  injured,  he  went  to  the  morgue.  At 
midnight  the  fire,  like  an  evil  thing,  drew  him 
back,  and  he  encountered  only  a  steamy  black- 
ness lit  by  the  search-light  of  the  engine.  There 
was  still  the  insistent  throbbing.  And  then  he 
thought  of  his  mother  and  her  fears,  and  sped 
swiftly  up  the  street,  over  deserted  Lexington 
Avenue,  and  up  the  lamp -lit  block.  Already 
newsboys  were  hoarsely  shouting  in  the  night,  as 
they  waved  their  papers — a  cry  of  the  under- 
world palpitating  through  the  hushed  city: 
"Wuxtra!  Wuxtra!  Great — fire — horror!  Sixty 
-killed!  Wuxtra!" 

The  house  was  still  open,  lighted,  awake. 
People  came  into  the  hall  as  he  entered,  but  he 
shunned  them  and  started  up  the  stairs.  One 
called  after  him. 

23 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Your  mother's  out,  Mr.  Joe." 

He  turned. 

"Out?     How  long?" 

"Since  the  fire  started.  .  .  .  She's  been  back 
and  forth  several  times.  ..." 

He  went  on  up,  entered  the  neat,  still  front 
room,  lit  the  gas  beside  the  bureau  mirror,  and 
began  to  pace  up  and  down.  His  mother  was 
searching  for  him;  he  might  have  known  it;  he 
should  have  remembered  it. 

And  then  he  heard  the  uncanny  shouting  of 
the  newsboys — as  if  those  dead  girls  had  risen 
from  their  ashes  and  were  running  like  flaming 
furies  through  the  city  streets,  flinging  handfuls 
of  their  fire  into  a  million  homes,  shaking  New 
York  into  a  realization  of  its  careless,  guilty 
heart,  crying  for  vengeance,  stirring  horror  and 
anger  and  pity.  Who  was  the  guilty  one,  if  not 
he,  the  boss? 

And  then  the  inquisition  began,  the  repeated 
sting  of  lashing  thoughts  and  cruel  questions. 
He  asked  himself  what  right  he  had  to  be  an  em- 
ployer, to  take  the  responsibility  of  thirty  lives 
in  his  hands.  He  was  careless,  easy-going,  he 
was  in  business  for  profits.  Had  such  a  man  any 
right  to  be  placed  over  others,  to  be  given  the 
power  over  other  lives  ?  The  guilt  was  his ;  the 
blame  fell  on  him.  He  should  have  kept  clean 
house ;  he  should  have  stamped  out  the  smoking ; 
he  should  not  have  smoked  himself.  There  fell 
upon  his  shoulders  a  burden  not  to  be  borne,  the 

24 


THE  GOOD    PEOPLE 

burden  of  his  blame,  and  he  felt  as  if  nothing 
now  in  the  world  could  assuage  that  sense  of 
guilt. 

Life,  he  found,  was  a  fury,  a  cyclone,  not  the 
simple,  easy  affair  he  had  thought  it.  It  was  his 
living  for  himself,  his  living  alone,  his  ignorance 
of  the  fact  that  his  life  was  tangled  in  with  the 
lives  of  all  human  beings,  so  that  he  was  socially 
responsible,  responsible  for  the  misery  and  pov- 
erty and  pain  all  about  him. 

That  he  should  be  the  one !  Had  he  not  lived 
just  the  average  life — blameless,  cheerful,  hard- 
working, fun-loving — the  life  of  the  average 
American  ?  Just  by  every  -  day  standards  his 
was  the  useful  and  good  life.  But  no,  that 
was  not  enough.  In  his  rush  for  success  he  had 
made  property  his  treasure  instead  of  human 
beings.  That  was  the  crime.  And  so  these  dead 
lay  all  about  him  as  if  he  had  murdered  them 
with  his  hands,  t  It  was  his  being  an  average 
man  that  had  killed  sixty- three  girls  and  men. 
And  what  had  he  been  after  ?  Money  ?  He  did 
not  use  his  money,  did  not  need  so  much.  Just 
a  little  shared  with  his  employees  would  have 
saved  them.  No,  the  average  man  must  cease  to 
exist,  and  the  social  man  take  his  place,  the 
brother  careful  of  his  fellow-men,  not  careless  of 
all  but  his  own  gain. 

A  boy  passed,  hoarsely  shouting  that  terrible 
extra.  Would  nothing  in  the  world  silence  that 
sound?  The  cold  sweat  came  out  on  his  face. 

25 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

He  was  the  guilty  one.     That  was  the  one  fact 
that  he  knew. 

And  then  he  paused;  the  door  opened  creak- 
ingly  and  his  mother  entered.  She  was  a  mag- 
nificent young-old  woman,  her  body  sixty- three 
years  old,  her  mind  singularly  fresh  and  young. 
She  was  tall,  straight,  spirited,  and  under  the 
neat  glossy-white  hair  was  a  noble  face,  some- 
what long,  somewhat  slim,  a  little  pallid,  but 
with  firm  chin  and  large  forehead  and  living 
large  black  eyes  set  among  sharp  lines  of  lids. 
The  whole  woman  was  focussed  in  the  eyes, 
sparkled  there,  lived  there,  deep,  limpid,  quick, 
piercing.  Her  pallor  changed  to  pure  white- 
ness. 

"Joe  ..."  her  voice  broke.  "I've  been  look- 
ing for  you.  .  .  ." 

He  paused,  walled  away  from  her  by  years  of 
isolation.  She  advanced  slowly;  her  face  be- 
came terrible  in  its  hungry  love,  its  mother 
passion.  She  met  his  eyes,  and  then  he  fled  to 
her,  and  his  body  shook  with  rough,  tearless  sobs. 
Her  relief  came  in  great  tears. 

"And  all  those  girls,"  she  was  murmuring, 
"and  those  men.  How  did  it  happen?" 

He  drew  back;  his  eyes  became  strange. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  harshly,  "I'm  the  guilty 
one.  There  was  a  heap  of  cotton  waste  in  the 
corner,  shouldn't  have  been  there.  And  I  let 
the  men  smoke  cigarettes." 

She  was  horrified. 

26 


THE   GOOD    PEOPLE 

1  'But  why  did  you  do  that?"  she  whispered, 
moving  a  little  away  from  him. 

"  My  thoughtlessness  .  .  .  my  business"  The 
word  was  charged  with  bitterness.  "Business! 
business!  I'm  a  business  man!  I  wasn't  in 
business" — he  gave  a  weird  laugh — "for  the 
health  of  my  employees !  I  was  making  money !" 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had  ceased  being  her 
son  and  had  turned  into  a  monster.  Then  she 
swayed,  grasped  the  bedpost  and  sank  on  the 
bed. 

Her  voice  was  low  and  harsh. 

"  Your  fault  .  .  .  and  all  those  young  girls  ..." 

His  mother  had  judged  him;  he  looked  at 
her  with  haggard  eyes,  and  spoke  in  a  hollow 
voice. 

"Nothing  will  ever  wipe  this  guilt  from  my 
mind.  ...  I'm  branded  for  life  .  .  .  this 
thing  will  go  on  and  on  and  on  every  day  that 
I  live.  .  .  ." 

She  glanced  at  him  then,  and  saw  only  her 
son,  the  child  she  had  carried  in  her  arms,  the 
boy  who  had  romped  with  her,  and  she  only 
knew  now  that  he  was  suffering,  that  no  one 
on  earth  could  be  in  greater  pain. 

"Oh,  my  poor  Joe!"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  beside  himself,  "I'm 
blasted  with  guilt.  ..." 

She  cried  out: 

"If  you  go  on  like  this,  we'll  both  go  out  of 
our  minds,  Joe!  Fight!  It's  done  .  .  .  it's 

27 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

over.  .  .  .  From  now  on,  make  amends.  .  .  . 
Joe!"  —  She  rose  magnificently  then  —  "Your 
father  lost  his  arm  in  the  war.  .  .  .  Now  give 
your  life  to  setting  things  right!'* 

And  she  drew  him  close  again.  Her  words, 
her  love,  her  belief  in  him  roused  him  at  last. 

"You  know  the  fault  isn't  all  yours,"  she 
said.  "The  factory  inspector's  to  blame,  too 
— and  the  men — and  the  people  up-stairs — 
and  the  law  because  it  didn't  demand  better 
protection  and  fire-drills — all  are  to  blame. 
You  take  too  much  on  yourself.  .  .  ." 

And  gradually,  striving  with  him  through 
the  early  morning  hours,  she  calmed  him,  she 
soothed  him,  and  got  him  to  bed.  He  was  at 
last  too  weary  to  think  or  feel  and  he  slept 
deep  into  the  day.  And  thinking  a  little  of 
herself,  she  realized  that  the  tragedy  had 
brought  them  closer  together  than  they  had 
been  for  years. 

Out  of  those  ashes  on  East  Eighty-first  Street 
rose  a  certain  splendor  over  the  city.  All  of 
New  York  drew  together  with  indignation  and 
wondrous  pity.  It  did  not  bring  the  dead 
girls  to  life  again — it  was  too  late  for  that — but 
it  brought  many  other  dead  people  to  life. 

Fifty  thousand  dollars  flowed  to  the  news- 
papers for  relief ;  an  inquest  probed  causes  and 
guilt  and  prevention;  mass  -  meetings  were 
held ;  the  rich  and  the  powerful  forgot  position 

28 


THE   GOOD   PEOPLE 

and  remembered  their  common  humanity ;  and 
the  philanthropic  societies  set  to  work  with 
money,  with  doctors  and  nurses  and  visitors. 
The  head  of  one  huge  association  said  to  the 
relief  committee  in  a  low,  trembling  voice: 
"Of  course,  our  whole  staff  is  at  your  service." 
Just  for  a  time,  a  little  time,  the  five-million- 
manned  city  flavored  its  confused,  selfish 
struggle  with  simple  brotherhood. 

How  had  it  happened?  Whose  was  the 
fault  ?  How  came  it  that  sixty  girls  were  im- 
prisoned in  the  skies,  as  it  were,  and  could 
only  fling  themselves  down  to  the  stone  pave- 
ment in  an  insanity  of  terror?  What  war 
was  more  horrible  than  this  Peace  of  Industry  ? 
Such  things  must  be  prevented  in  future,  said 
New  York,  rising  like  a  wrathful  god — and  for 
a  while  the  busy  wheels  of  progress  turned. 

Joe  had  to  attend  the  inquest  as  a  witness. 
He  gave  his  testimony  in  a  simple,  sincere,  and 
candid  way  that  gained  him  sympathy.  His 
men  testified  in  his  behalf,  trying  to  wholly 
exonerate  him  and  inculpate  themselves,  and 
the  lawyers  cleverly  scattered  blame  from  one 
power  to  another — the  city,  the  State,  the  fire 
department,  the  building  department,  etc. 
It  became  clear  that  Joe  could  not  be  officially 
punished;  it  was  evident  that  he  had  done  as 
much  as  the  run  of  employers  to  protect  life, 
and  that  his  intentions  had  been  blameless. 

However,  that  did  not  ease  Joe's  real  punish- 
29 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

ment.  He  was  a  changed  man  that  week, 
calm,  ready  with  his  smile,  but  haggard  and 
bowed,  nervous  and  overwrought,  bearing  a 
burden  too  heavy  for  his  heart.  He  made 
over  the  twenty  thousand  dollars  of  insurance 
money  to  the  Relief  and  Prevention  Work; 
he  visited  the  injured  and  the  bereaved;  he 
forgot  Myra  and  tried  to  forget  himself;  he 
attended  committee  meetings. 
Myra  wrote  him  a  little  note : 

DEAR  JOE, — Don't  forget  that  whatever  happens  I 
believe  in  you  utterly  and  I  love  you  and  shall  always 
love  you,  and  that  you  have  me  when  all  else  is  lost. 

Your  MYRA. 

To  which  he  merely  replied: 

DEAR  MYRA, — I  shall  remember  what  you  say,  and  I 
shall  see  you  when  I  can.  Yours,  JOE. 

It  was  on  Sunday  afternoon  that  Joe  met 
Fannie  Lemick  on  the  street.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  and  he  noticed  she  was  trembling. 

"Mr.  Joe!"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  Fannie  ..." 

"Are  you  going,  too?" 

"Going  where?" 

"Don't  you  know?  The  mass-meeting  at 
Carnegie  Hall!" 

He  looked  at  her,  smiling. 

"I'll  go  with  you,  if  I  may!" 

So  they  went  down  together.  A  jam  of 
30 


THE   GOOD    PEOPLE 

poor  people  was  crowding  the  doors,  and  a 
string  of  automobiles  drew  up  and  passed 
at  the  curb.  Joe  and  Fannie  got  in  the 
throng.  There  was  no  room  left  in  the  orches- 
tra and  they  were  swept  with  the  flood  up  and 
up,  flight  after  flight,  to  the  high  gallery. 
Here  they  found  seats  and  looked  down,  down 
as  if  on  the  side  of  the  planet,  on  the  far-away 
stage  filled  with  the  speakers  and  the  com- 
mittees, and  on  that  sea  of  humanity  that 
swept  back  and  up  through  the  boxes  to  them- 
selves. All  in  the  subdued  light,  the  golden 
light  that  crowd  sat,  silent,  remorseful,  stirred 
by  a  sense  of  having  risen  to  a  great  occasion ; 
thousands  of  human  beings,  the  middle  class, 
the  rich,  the  poor;  Americans,  Germans, 
Italians,  Jews.  But  all  about  him  Joe  felt  a 
silent  hatred,  a  still  cry  for  vengeance,  a  class 
bitterness.  Many  of  these  were  relatives  of 
the  dead. 

It  was  a  demonstration  of  the  human  power 
that  refuses  to  submit  to  environment  and 
circumstance  and  fate ;  that  rises  and  rebukes 
facts,  reshapes  destiny.  And  then  the  speaking 
began :  the  bishop,  the  rabbi,  the  financier,  the 
philanthropist,  the  social  worker.  They  spoke 
eloquently,  they  showed  pity,  they  were  con- 
structive, they  were  prepared  to  act;  they 
represented  the  "better  classes"  and  promised 
the  "poor,"  the  toilers,  that  they  would  see 
that  relief  and  protection  were  given;  but 

31 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

somehow  their  eloquence  did  not  carry;  some- 
how that  mass  of  commonest  men  and  women 
refused  to  be  stirred  and  thrilled.  There  was 
even  a  little  hissing  when  it  was  announced 
that  a  committee  of  big  men  would  see  to  the 
matter. 

Joe  had  a  dull  sense  of  some  monstrous  social 
cleavage ;  the  world  divided  into  the  rulers  and 
the  ruled,  the  drivers  and  the  driven.  He  felt 
uncomfortable,  and  so  did  the  throng.  There 
was  a  feeling  as  if  the  crowd  ought  to  have  a 
throat  to  give  vent  to  some  strange,  fierce  fact 
that  festered  in  its  heart. 

And  then  toward  the  end  the  chairman  an- 
nounced that  one  of  the  hat-trimmers,  one  of 
the  girls  who  worked  in  another  hat  factory, 
would  address  the  meeting — Miss  Sally  Heffer. 

A  girl  arose,  a  young  woman  with  thin, 
sparse,  gold-glinting  hair,  with  face  pallid  and 
rounded,  with  broad  forehead  and  gray  eyes 
of  remarkable  clarity.  She  was  slim,  dressed 
in  a  little  brown  coat  and  a  short  brown  skirt. 
She  came  forward,  trembling,  as  if  overcome 
by  the  audience.  She  paused,  raised  her  head 
and  tried  to  speak.  There  was  not  a  sound, 
and  suddenly  the  audience  became  strangely 
still,  leaning  forward,  waiting. 

Then  again  she  tried  to  speak ;  it  was  hardly 
above  a  whisper;  and  yet  so  clear  was  the 
hush  that  Joe  heard  every  word.  And  he 
knew,  and  all  knew,  that  this  young  woman 

32 


THE  GOOD    PEOPLE 

was  overcome,  not  by  the  audience,  but  by  the 
passion  of  the  tragedy,  the  passion  of  an  op- 
pressed class.  She  was  the  voice  of  the  toilers  at 
last  dimly  audible ;  she  was  the  voice  of  a  mil- 
lion years  of  sore  labor  and  bitter  poverty 
and  thwarted  life.  And  the  audience  was 
thrilled,  and  the  powerful  were  shaken  with 
remorse. 

Trembling,  terrible  came  the  words  out  of 
that  little  body  on  the  far  stage: 

"I  would  be  a  traitor  to  these  poor  burned 
bodies  if  I  came  here  to  talk  good-fellowship. 
We  have  tried  you  good  people  of  the  public 
and  we  have  found  you  wanting.  The  old 
Inquisition  had  its  rack  and  its  thumbscrews 
and  its  instruments  of  torture  with  iron  teeth. 
We  know  what  these  things  are  to-day:  the 
iron  teeth  are  our  necessities,  the  thumbscrews 
the  high-powered  and  swift  machinery  close 
to  which  we  must  work,  and  the  rack  is  here 
in  the  fire-trap  structures  that  will  destroy  us 
the  minute  they  catch  on  fire. 

"This  is  not  the  first  time  girls  have  been 
burned  alive  in  this  city.  Every  week  I  learn 
of  the  untimely  death  of  one  of  my  sister 
workers.  Every  year  thousands  of  us  are 
maimed.  The  life  of  men  and  women  is  so 
cheap  and  property  is  so  sacred!  There  are  so 
many  of  us  for  one  job,  it  matters  little  if  sixty 
of  us  are  burned  to  death. 

"We  have  tried  you  citizens;  we  are  trying 
3  33 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

you  now,  and  you  have  a  couple  of  dollars  for 
the  sorrowing  mothers  and  brothers  and  sisters 
by  way  of  a  charity  gift.  But  every  time  the 
workers  come  out  in  the  only  way  they  know 
to  protest  against  conditions  which  are  un- 
bearable, the  strong  hand  of  the  law  is  allowed 
to  press  heavily  down  on  us. 

"  Public  officials  have  only  words  of  warn- 
ing to  us — warning  that  we  must  be  intensely 
orderly  and  intensely  peaceable,  and  they  have 
the  workhouse  just  back  of  all  their  warn- 
ings. 

"I  can't  talk  fellowship  to  you  who  are 
gathered  here.  Too  much  blood  has  been 
spilled.  I  know  from  my  experience  it  is  up 
to  the  working  people  to  save  themselves. 
The  only  way  they  can  save  themselves  is  by 
a  strong  working-class  movement." 

Joe  heard  nothing  further.  There  were  several 
other  speakers,  but  no  words  penetrated  to  his 
brain.  He  felt  as  if  he  must  stifle.  He  felt  the 
globe  of  earth  cracking,  breaking  in  two  under 
his  feet,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was 
acutely  aware  of  the  division  of  humanity.  All 
through  his  career  he  had  taken  his  middle-class 
position  for  granted ;  he  tacitly  agreed  that  there 
were  employees  and  employers;  but  in  his  own 
case  his  camaraderie  had  hidden  the  cleavage. 
Now  he  saw  a  double  world — on  the  one  side  the 
moneyed  owners,  on  the  other  the  crowded, 
scrambling,  disorganized  hordes  of  the  toilers — 

34 


THE   GOOD   PEOPLE 

each  one  of  them  helpless,  a  victim,  worked  for 
all  that  was  in  him,  and  then  flung  aside  in  the 
scrap  heap.  And  behold,  this  horde  was  becom- 
ing self-conscious,  was  beginning  to  organize, 
was  finding  a  voice.  And  he,  who  was  one  of 
the  "good  people,"  was  rejected  by  this  voice. 
He  had  been  "tried"  and  found  wanting.  He 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  fence.  And  it  was 
the  fault  of  his  class  that  fire  horrors  and  all  the 
chaos  and  cruelty  of  industry  arose.  So  that 
now  the  working  people  had  found  that  they 
must  "save  themselves." 

In  an  agony  of  guilt  again  he  felt  what  he  had 
said  to  Myra:  "From  now  on  I  belong  to  those 
dead  girls" — yes,  and  to  their  fellow  -  workers. 
Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  must  see 
Sally  Heffer  —  that  to  her  he  must  carry  the 
burden  of  his  guilt — to  her  he  must  personally 
make  answer  to  the  terrible  accusations  she  had 
voiced.  It  was  all  at  once,  as  if  only  in  this  way 
could  he  go  on  living,  that  otherwise  he  would 
end  in  the  insanity  of  the  mad-house  or  the 
insanity  of  suicide. 

He  was  walking  down  the  stairs  with  Fannie, 
and  he  was  trembling. 

"Do  you  know  this  Sally  Heffer?" 

"Know  her?  We  all  do!"  she  cried,  with  all  a 
young  girl's  enthusiasm. 

"I  want  to  see  her,  Fannie.  Where  does  she 
live?" 

"Oh,  somewhere  in  Greenwich  Village.  But 
35 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

she'll  be  up  at  the  Woman's  League  after  the 
meeting." 

He  went  up  to  the  Woman's  League  and  found 
the  office  crowded  with  women  and  men.  He 
asked  for  Miss  Heffer. 

"I'll  take  your  name,"  said  the  young  woman, 
and  then  came  back  with  the  answer  that  "he'd 
have  to  wait." 

So  he  took  a  seat  and  waited.  He  felt  feverish 
and  sick,  as  if  he  could  no  longer  carry  this  bur- 
den with  him.  It  seemed  impossible  to  sit  still. 
And  yet  he  waited  over  an  hour,  waited  until  it 
was  eight  at  night,  all  the  gas-jets  lit. 

The  young  woman  came  up  to  him. 

'  *  You  want  to  see  Miss  Heffer  ?    Come  this  way. ' ' 

He  was  led  up  a  flight  of  stairs  to  a  little 
narrow  hall-room.  Sally  Heffer  was  there  at  a 
roll- top  desk,  still  in  her  little  brown  coat — quiet, 
pale,  her  clear  eyes  remarkably  penetrating. 
She  turned. 

"Yes?" 

He  shook  pitifully,  .  .  .  then  he  sat  down,  hold- 
ing his  hat  in  his  hands. 

"I'm  Joe  Elaine.  ..." 

"Joe  Elaine  ...  of  what?" 

"Of  the  printery  .  .  .  that  burned.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"So,  you're  the  employer." 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Well,"  she  said,  brusquely,  "what  do  you 
want?" 

36 


THE   GOOD    PEOPLE 

"I  heard  you  speak  this  afternoon."  His  face 
flickered  with  a  smile. 

"And  so  you  .  .  .?" 

He  could  say  nothing;  and  she  looked  closer. 
She  saw  his  gray  face,  his  unsteady  eyes,  the 
tragedy  of  the  broken  man.  Then  she  spoke 
with  a  lovely  gentleness. 

"You  want  to  do  something?" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured,  "I  want  to  give — all." 

She  lowered  her  voice,  and  it  thrilled  him. 

"It  won't  help  to  give  your  money  —  you 
must  give  yourself.  We  don't  want  char- 
ity." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  moment;  and  then 
strength  rose  in  him. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  I  came.  ...  I  felt  I  had  to. 
...  I  felt  that  you  were  accusing  me.  I  know  I 
am  guilty.  I  have  come  here  to  be" — he  smiled 
strangely — '  *  sentenced. ' ' 

She  drew  closer. 

"You  came  here  for  that?" 

"Yes." 

She  rose  and  took  a  step  either  way.  She 
gazed  on  him,  and  suddenly  she  broke  down  and 
cried,  her  hands  to  her  face. 

"O  God,"  she  sobbed,  "when  will  all  this  be 
over  ?  When  will  we  get  rid  of  this  tragedy  ?  I 
can't  stand  it  longer." 

He  rose,  too,  confused. 

"Listen,"  he  whispered.  "I  swear  to  you,  I 
swear,  that  from  this  day  on  my  life  belongs  to 

37 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

those" — his  voice  broke — "dead  girls  ...  to 
the  toilers.  ..." 

She  impulsively  reached  out  a  hand,  and  he 
seized  it.  Then,  when  she  became  more  quiet, 
she  murmured : 

"I  can  see  you  mean  it.  Oh,  this  is  wonder- 
ful! It  is  a  miracle  springing  out  of  the  fire!" 

There  was  a  strange  throbbing  silence  that 
brought  them  close  together.  And  Sally,  glanc- 
ing at  him  again,  whispered: 

"I  can  see  how  you  have  suffered!  Let  me 
help  you  ...  all  that  I  can!" 

He  spoke  in  great  pain. 

"What  can  I  do?     I  know  so  little." 

"Do?  You  must  learn  that  for  yourself. 
You  must  fit  in  where  you  belong.  Do  you 
know  anything  of  the  working-class  movement  ?" 

"No,"  he  said. 

"Then  I  will  make  a  list  of  books  and  maga- 
zines for  you." 

She  sat  down  and  wrote  a  list  on  a  slip,  and 
arose  and  handed  it  to  him. 

She  was  gazing  at  him  again,  gazing  at  the 
tragic  face.  Then  she  whispered: 

"I  believe  in  you.  ...  Is  there  anything 
else?" 

And  again  she  reached  out  her  hand  and  he 
clasped  it.  Her  fine  faith  smote  something  hard 
in  him,  shriveled  it  like  fire,  and  all  at  once,  mirac- 
ulously, divinely,  a  little  liquid  gush  of  lovely 
joy,  of  wonderful  beatitude  began  to  rise  from 

38 


THE   GOOD    PEOPLE 

his  heart,  to  rise  and  overflow  and  fill  him.  He 
was  being  cleansed,  he  had  expiated  his  guilt  by 
confessing  it  to  his  accuser  and  receiving  her 
strange  and  gentle  forgiveness ;  tears  came  to  his 
eyes,  came  and  paused  on  the  lashes  and  trickled 
down.  He  gulped  a  sob. 

"I  can  go  on  now,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering. 

"You  can!"  she  whispered. 

And  he  went  out,  a  free  man  again,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  a  new  life. 


IV 

GOLDEN   OCTOBER 

LIFE  has  an  upspringing  quality  that  defies 
pain.  Something  buoyant  throbs  in  the 
heart  of  the  world— something  untamed  and 
wild — exultant  in  the  flying  beauty  of  romping 
children,  glinting  in  the  dawn -whitened  sea, 
risen,  indeed,  through  man  into  triumphant  cities 
and  works,  and  running  like  a  pulse  through  his 
spirit.  San  Francisco  is  shattered,  and  there  is 
death  and  sorrow  and  destruction:  a  whole 
population  is  homeless — whereupon  the  little 
human  creatures  come  down  from  the  hills  like 
laughing  gods  and  create  but  a  more  splendid 
city.  Earth  itself  forges  through  its  winters 
with  an  April  power  that  flushes  a  continent  with 
delicate  blossoms  and  tints. 

Joe  had  come  home  from  Sally  Heffer  a  man 
renewed.  From  some  clear  well  in  his  nature 
sprang  a  limpid  stream  of  soft,  new  joy;  a  new 
exhilarating  sense  of  life;  a  new  creative  power 
that  made  him  eager  for  action.  His  heart  was 
cleansed,  and  with  the  exquisite  happiness  of  a 
forgiven  child  he  "took  up  the  task  eternal." 

40 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

Hereafter  he  was  a  man  dedicated,  a  man  con- 
secrated to  a  great  work. 

His  mother  noticed  the  change  in  him,  a  new 
wisdom,  a  sweet  jocularity,  and,  withal,  the 
return  of  much  of  his  old  nature — its  rough 
camaraderie,  its  boyish  liveliness  and  homely 
simplicity.  For  her  this  was  a  marvelous  relief, 
and  she  could  only  watch  him  and  wonder  at 
the  change.  He  seemed  very  busy  again,  and 
she  did  not  disturb  him  in  these  sensitive  days 
of  growth;  she  waited  the  inevitable  time  when 
he  would  come  to  her  and  tell  her  what  he  was 
going  to  do,  whether  he  would  re-establish  his 
business  or  whether  he  had  some  new  plan. 
And  then  one  day,  tidying  up  his  room,  she 
stumbled  on  a  heap  of  books.  Her  heart 
thrilled  and  she  began  to  surreptitiously  borrow 
these  books  herself. 

Already  the  great  city  had  forgotten  its  fire 
horror — save  the  tiny,  growing  stir  of  an  agitat- 
ing committee — and  even  to  those  most  nearly 
concerned  it  began  to  fade,  a  nightmare  scat- 
tered by  the  radiance  of  new  morning.  One 
could  only  trust  that  from  those  fair  and  unpol- 
luted bodies  had  sprung  a  new  wave  of  human 
brotherliness  never  to  be  quite  lost.  And  Joe's 
mother  had  had  too  much  training  in  the  ter- 
rible to  be  long  overborne.  She  believed  in  her 
son  and  stood  by  him. 

Luckily  for  Joe,  he  had  much  work  to  do.  He 
and  Marty  Briggs  had  to  settle  up  the  business, 

4i 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

close  with  customers,  dig  from  the  burned  rub- 
bish proofs  and  contracts,  attend  the  jury,  and 
help  provide  for  his  men.  One  sunny  morning 
he  and  Marty  were  working  industriously  in  the 
loft,  when  Marty,  with  a  cry  of  exultation, 
lifted  up  a  little  slot  box. 

''Holy  Moses,  Joe!"  he  exclaimed,  "if  here 
ain't  the  old  kick-box!" 

They  looked  in  it  together,  very  tenderly,  for 
it  was  the  very  symbol  of  Joe's  ten  years  of  busi- 
ness. On  its  side  there  was  still  pasted  a  slip  of 
paper,  covered  with  typewriting: 

KICK-BOX 

This  business  is  human — not  perfect.  It  needs  good 
thinking,  new  ideas  (no  matter  how  unusual),  and 
honest  criticism. 

There  are  many  things  you  think  wrong  about  the 
printery  and  the  printery's  head — things  you  would 
not  talk  of  face  to  face,  as  business  time  is  precious 
and  spoken  words  are  sometimes  hard  to  bear. 

Now  this  is  what  I  want:  Sit  down  and  write  what 
you  think  in  plain  English.  It  will  do  me  good. 

JOE  BLAINE. 

Suddenly  Marty  looked  at  his  boss. 
"Say,  Joe." 
"What  is  it,  Marty?" 
The  big  fellow  hesitated. 
"Say — when  that  jury  finishes — you're  going 
to  set  things  up  again,  and  go  on.     Ain't  you?" 
Joe  smiled  sadly. 
"I  don't  know,  Marty." 
42 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

Tears  came  to  Marty's  eyes. 

"Say — what  will  the  fellers  say?  Ah,  now, 
you'll  go  ahead,  Joe." 

"Just  give  me  a  week  or  two,  Marty — then 
I'll  tell  you." 

But  the  big  fellow's  simple  grief  worked  on 
him  and  made  him  waver,  and  there  were  other 
meetings  with  old  employees  that  sharply  drew 
him  back  to  the  printery.  One  evening,  after  a 
big  day  of  activity,  he  found  it  too  late  to  reach 
the  boarding-house  for  supper  and  he  remem- 
bered that  John  Rann's  baby  was  sick.  So  he 
turned  and  hurried  across  the  golden  glamor  of 
Third  Avenue,  on  Eightieth  Street,  and  just 
beyond  climbed  up  three  flights  of  stairs  in  a 
stuffy  tenement  and  knocked  on  the  rear  door. 
Smells  of  supper — smells  chiefly  of  cabbage, 
cauliflower,  fried  onions,  and  fried  sausages — 
pervaded  the  hall  like  an  invisible  personality, 
but  Joe  was  smell-proof. 

A  husky  voice  bade  him  come  in  and  he  pushed 
open  the  door  into  a  neat  kitchen.  At  a  table 
in  the  center  under  a  nicely  globed  light  sat  John 
Rann  in  his  woolen  undershirt.  John  was  smok- 
ing a  pipe  and  reading  the  evening  paper,  and 
opposite  John  two  young  girls,  one  about  ten,  the 
other  seven,  were  studying  their  lessons. 

"Hello,  John!"  said  Joe. 

John  nodded  amiably,  and  muttered : 

"Hello  yourself!" 

He  was  a  strong,  athletic,  stocky  fellow,  with 
43 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

sunken  little  blue  eyes,  heavy  jaws,  and  almost 
bald  head.  Before  he  had  time  to  rise  the  two 
young  girls  leaped  up  with  shrieks  of  joy  and 
rushed  to  Joe.  Joe  at  once  tucked  one  under 
each  arm  and  hugged  them  forward  to  a  big 
chair,  into  which  they  all  sank  together. 

"Well!    Well!"  cried  Joe. 

"Who  do  you  love  most?"  asked  the  seven- 
year-old. 

"The  one  who  loves  me  most!"  said  Joe. 

"I  do!"  they  both  shrieked. 

"Now  leave  Mr.  Joe  be,"  warned  the  father. 
"Such  tomboys  they're  getting  to  be,  there's  no 
holdin'  'em  in!" 

At  once  in  the  half-curtained  doorway  to  the 
next  room  appeared  a  stocky  little  woman,  whose 
pale  face  was  made  emphatic  by  large  steel- 
rimmed  glasses  that  shrank  each  eye-pupil  to 
the  size  of  a  tack-head.  Her  worried  forehead 
smoothed;  she  smiled. 

"I  knew  it  was  Mr.  Joe,"  she  said,  "by  the 
way  those  gals  yelled. " 

Joe  spoke  eagerly : 

"I  just  had  to  run  in,  Mrs.  Rann,  to  ask  how 
the  baby  was." 

"He's  a  sight  better.  Mrs.  Smith,  who  lives 
third  floor  front,  had  one  just  like  him  sick  a 
year  ago  come  Thanksgiving,  and  he  died  like 
that.  But  the  doctor  you  sent  over  is  that  kind 
and  cute  he's  got  the  little  fellow  a-fightin'  for  his 
life.  He's  a  big  sight  better.  Want  to  see  him  ? ' 

44 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

Joe  gave  a  kiss  each  way,  set  down  two  reluc- 
tant women-to-be,  and  followed  Mrs.  Rann  to 
the  inner  room.  In  a  little  crib  a  youngster, 
just  recovered  from  colic,  was  kicking  up  his 
heels.  Joe  leaned  over  and  tickled  the  sole  of 
one  foot. 

"Well,  Johnny  boy!" 

"Unc!     Unc!"  cried  the  infant. 

The  mother  purred  with  delight. 

"He's  trying  to  say  Uncle  Joe.  Did  you  ever 
hear  the  likes?" 

Joe  beamed  with  pride. 

"Well,  your  uncle  hasn't  forgotten  you,  old 
man!" 

And  he  produced  from  his  pocket  a  little  rub- 
ber doll  that  whistled  whenever  its  belly  was 
squeezed. 

John  Rann  appeared  behind  them. 

"Say,  Mr.  Joe,  you  haven't  had  your  supper 
yet." 

"Not  hungry!"  muttered  Joe. 

"G'wan!  Molly,  put  him  up  a  couple  of  fried 
eggs,  browned  on  both,  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  I 
won't  take  no,  either. " 

Joe  laughed. 

"Well,  perhaps  I'd  better.  I'm  ashamed  to 
ask  for  anything  home  this  hour — in  fact,  I'm 
scared  to." 

So  he  got  his  fried  eggs  and  coffee,  and  the 
family  hung  around  him,  and  Joe,  circled  with 
such  warm  friendliness,  was  glad  to  be  alive. 

45 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

He   was   especially  pleased   with   Mrs.    Rann's 
regard.     But  Joe  was  always  a  favorite  with 
mothers.     Possibly  because  he  was  so  fond  of 
their  babies.     Possibly  because  mothers  love  a 
good  son,  wherever  they  find  one.     Possibly  be- 
cause his  heart  was  large  enough  to  contain  as 
something  precious  their  obscure  lives. 
Just  before  he  left  John  asked  him : 
"Will  the  printery  soon  be  running,  Mr.  Joe?" 
"Tell  you  later,"  murmured  Joe,  and  went 
out.     But  he  was  sorely  troubled. 

However,  to  Joe  there  had  been  revealed — 
almost  in  a  day  and  after  thirty-eight  years  of 
insulated  life— two  of  the  supreme  human  facts. 
There  was  humanity,  on  the  one  side,  building  the 
future,  the  new  state,  organizing  its  scattered 
millions  into  a  rich,  healthy,  joyous  life  and  call- 
ing to  every  man  to  enlist  in  the  ranks  of  the 
creators;  and  then  there  was  woman,  the  un- 
dying splendor  of  the  world,  the  beauty  that 
drenches  life  with  meaning  and  magic,  that  stirs 
the  elemental  in  a  man,  that  wakens  the  race 
instinct,  that  demands  the  creation  of  new 
generations  to  inhabit  that  new  state  of  the 
future.  Intertwined,  these  wondrous  things 
drew  the  heart  now  this  way,  now  that,  and  to 
Joe  they  arose  separately  in  intermittent  pulsa- 
tions that  threatened  to  absorb  his  existence. 

He  did  not  dare  go  to  Myra  until  he  was  sure 
of  himself.  It  deemed  that  he  would  have  to 
choose  between  woman  and  work.  It  seemed 

46 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

as  if  his  work  would  lead  into  peril,  dirt,  disaster, 
and  that  he  could  not  ask  a  delicate,  high-strung 
woman  to  go  with  him.  The  woman  could  not 
follow  her  warrior  to  the  battle,  for  marriage 
meant  children  to  Joe,  and  the  little  ones  must 
stay  back  at  home  with  the  mother. 

In  that  moment  of  clear  terror  he  had  said  to 
Myra: 

"I  may  never  see  you  again.  ...  I  belong  to 
those  dead  girls. " 

And  this  phrase  came  and  went  like  a  refrain. 
He  must  choose  between  her  and  those  "dead 
girls."  There  stood  Myra  with  gray  luminous 
eyes  and  soft  echoing  voice  magically  hinting  of  a 
life  of  ever-renewed  romance.  She  had  a  breast 
for  his  aching  head,  she  had  in  her  hands  a  thou- 
sand darling  household  things,  she  had  in  her  the 
possibilities  of  his  own  children  .  .  .  who  should 
bring  a  wind  of  laughter  into  his  days  and  a 
strange  domestic  tenderness.  The  depths  of  the 
man  were  stirred  by  these  appeals — that  was 
the  happy  human  way  to  take,  the  common  road 
fringed  with  wild  flowers  and  brier-lost  berries, 
and  glorious  with  the  stride  of  health  and  the 
fresh  open  air. 

And  Myra  herself,  that  charming  presence  to 
infold  his  life —  He  would  go  walking  through 
the  golden  October  park,  by  little  leaf-strewn 
paths  under  the  wild  and  sun-soaked  foliage, 
with  many  vistas  every  way  of  luring  mystery, 
and  over  all  the  earth  the  rich  opulent  mother- 

47 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

bliss  of  harvest,  and  his  heart  would  ache,  ache 
within  him,  ache  for  his  own  harvests,  ache  like 
the  sun  for  the  earth,  the  man  for  the  woman. 

A  mad  frenzy  would  seize  him  and  he  would 
plunge  into  his  books  and  read  and  think  and 
lash  himself  to  a  fury  of  speculation  till  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning.  Exhaustion  alone  brought 
him  peace. 

But  something  had  to  be  done.  He  sat  down 
and  wrote  to  her  with  a  trembling  hand  : 

DEAR  MYRA, — Though  I  am  impatient  to  see  you,  I 
must  yet  wait  a  little  while.  Bear  with  me.  You  will 
understand  later.  Yours,  JOE. 


And  when  she  replied: 
DEAR  JOE, — Can't  I  help  you? 


MYRA. 


He  had  to  fight  a  whole  afternoon  before  he 
replied : 

Not  yet — later.  JOE. 

And  back  he  went  into  the  whirlwind  of  the 
world- vision,  a  stupendous  force  upsetting,  up- 
rooting, overturning,  demolishing,  almost  eras- 
ing and  contradicting  everything  that  Joe  had 
taken  for  granted,  and  in  the  wake  of  the  de- 
struction, rising  and  ever  rising,  a  new  creation, 
the  vision  of  a  new  world. 

He  had  taken  so  much  for  granted.  He  had 
taken  for  granted  that  he  lived  in  a  democracy — 

48 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

that  the  Civil  War  had  once  for  all  made  America 
a  free  nation — a  nation  of  opportunity,  riches,  and 
happiness  for  all.  Not  so.  Literally  millions 
were  living  in  abject  poverty,  slaves  to  their 
pay-envelopes;  to  lose  a  job  meant  to  lose  every- 
thing, there  being  more  laborers  than  jobs,  or  if 
not,  at  least  recurrent  "panics"  and  "hard 
times"  when  the  mills  and  the  mines  shut  down. 
And  these  wage  slaves  had  practically  no  voice 
in  one  of  the  chief  things  of  their  life — their 
work.  So  millions  were  penned  in  places  of 
danger  and  disease  and  dirt,  lived  and  toiled  in 
squalor,  and  were  cut  off  from  growth,  from 
health,  from  leisure  and  culture  and  recreation; 
and  worse,  millions  of  women  had  to  add  the 
burden  of  earning  a  living  to  the  already  over- 
whelming burden  of  child-bearing  and  home- 
making;  and,  still  worse,  millions  of  children  had 
been  drafted  into  the  service  of  industrialism. 

He  proved  the  case  for  himself.  He  began 
making  tours  of  the  city,  discovering  New  York, 
laying  bare  the  confusion  and  ugliness  and  grime 
and  crime  and  poverty  of  a  great  industrial 
center.  He  poked  into  the  Ghetto,  into  China- 
town, Greenwich  Village,  and  Little  Italy;  he 
peered  into  jails,  asylums,  and  workhouses;  he 
sneaked  through  factories  and  hung  about  saloons. 
Everywhere  a  terrific  struggle,  many  sinking 
down  into  the  city's  underworld  of  crime,  men 
becoming  vagrants  or  thieves,  women  walking 
the  streets  as  prostitutes. 

4  49 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

And  over  this  broad  foundation  of  the  "peo- 
ple" rose  the  structure  of  business  and  politics, 
equally  corrupted — or  so  it  seemed  to  Joe,  as  it 
does  to  every  one  who  is  fresh  to  the  facts.  Men 
at  the  top  gathering  into  their  hands  the  necessi- 
ties of  life:  oil,  meat,  coal,  water-power,  wool; 
seizing  on  the  railroads,  those  only  modern 
means  of  social  exchange;  snatching  strings  of 
banks  wherein  the  people's  money  was  being 
saved;  and  using  their  mighty  money-power  to 
corrupt  legislation,  to  thwart  the  will  of  the 
voters,  to  secure  new  powers,  to  crush  opposition. 
So  had  arisen  a  ''Money  Power"  that  was  annul- 
ing  democracy. 

And  Joe's  books  argued  that  all  this  change 
had  been  wrought  by  the  invention  of  machinery, 
that  only  through  steam,  steel,  and  electricity 
could  world-wide  organization  take  place,  that 
only  through  these  arose  the  industrial  city,  the 
modern  mill.  The  very  things  that  should  have 
set  man  free,  the  enormous  powers  he  snatched 
from  nature  and  harnessed  to  do  his  work, 
powers  with  the  strength  of  a  nation  of  men — 
these  very  things  had  been  seized  by  a  few  for 
their  own  profit,  and  had  enslaved  the  majority. 
Over  and  over  again  could  the  race  be  fed, 
clothed,  housed,  and  enriched  by  these  powers, 
and  that  with  lessened  hours  of  toil  and  more 
variety  of  work. 

But  Joe's  books  argued  further  and  most 
dogmatically  that  this  organization  by  the  selfish 

So 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

few  was  a  necessary  step  in  progress,  that  when 
their  work  was  finished  the  toilers,  the  millions, 
would  arise  and  seize  the  organization  and  use  it 
thereafter  for  the  good  of  all.  Indeed,  this  was 
what  Sally's  labor  movement  meant:  the  en- 
lightenment of  the  toilers  as  to  the  meaning  of 
industrialism,  and  their  training  for  the  supreme 
revolution. 

And  out  of  all  this  arose  the  world- vision. 
At  such  moments  Joe  walked  in  a  rarer  air,  he 
stepped  on  a  fairer  earth  than  ordinarily  obtains. 
It  was  the  beauty  and  loveliness  of  simple  human 
camaraderie,  of  warm  human  touch.  And  at 
such  times  Joe  had  no  doubt  of  his  life-work.  It 
lay  in  exquisite  places,  in  chambers  of  jolly 
grandeur,  in  the  invisible  halls  and  palaces  of  the 
human  spirit.  He  was  one  with  the  toilers  of 
earth,  one  with  the  crowded  underworld.  It 
was  that  these  lives  might  grow  richer  in  knowl- 
edge, richer  in  art,  richer  in  health,  richer  in 
festival,  richer  in  opportunity,  that  Joe  had  dedi- 
cated his  life.  And  so  arose  that  wonderful  and 
inexpressible  vision — a  picture  as  it  were  of  the 
far  future — a  glimpse  of  an  earth  singing  with 
uplifted  crowds  of  humanity,  on  one  half  of  the 
globe  going  out  to  meet  the  sunrise,  on  the  other, 
the  stars.  He  heard  the  music  of  that  Hymn  of 
Human  Victory,  which  from  millions  of  throats 
lifts  on  that  day  when  all  the  race  is  woven  into 
a  harmony  of  labor  and  joy  and  home  and  great 
unselfish  deeds.  That  day,  possibly,  might 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

never  arrive,  forever  fading  farther  and  farther 
into  the  sunlit  distances — but  it  is  the  day  which 
leads  the  race  forward.  To  Joe,  however,  came 
that  vision,  and  when  it  came  it  seemed  as  if  the 
last  drop  of  his  blood  would  be  little  to  offer,  even 
in  anguish,  to  help,  even  by  ever  so  little,  the 
coming  and  the  consummation  of  that  Victory. 

He  would  awake  in  the  night,  and  cry  out  in  a 
fever  : 

"By  God,  I'm  going  to  help  change  things. " 

The  vision  shook  him — tugged  at  his  heart, 
downward,  like  the  clutch  of  a  convulsive  child; 
seized  him  now  and  again  like  a  madness.  Even 
unto  such  things  had  the  "dead  girls"  brought 
him. 

So,  crammed  with  theories — theories  as  yet 
untested  by  experience — Joe  became  an  icono- 
clast lusting  for  change.  He  was  bursting  with 
good  news,  he  wanted  to  cry  the  intimations 
from  the  housetops,  he  wanted  to  proselytize, 
convert.  He  was  filled  with  Shelley's  passion 
for  reforming  the  world,  and  like  young  Shelley, 
he  felt  that  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  show  the 
people  the  truth  and  the  truth  would  make 
them  free. 

All  this  was  in  his  great  moments,  .  .  .  there 
were  reactions  when  his  human  humorous  self — 
backed  by  ten  years  of  the  printery — told  him 
that  the  world  is  a  complex  mix-up,  and  that 
there  are  many  visions ;  moments  that  made  him 
wonder  what  he  was  about,  and  why  so  un- 

52 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

trained  a  man  expected  to  achieve  such  mar- 
vels. 

But  these  reactions  were  swallowed  up  by  the 
recurrent  pulsations,  the  spasms  of  his  vision. 
He  felt  from  day  to  day  a  growth  of  purpose,  an 
accumulation  of  energy  that  would  resistlessly 
spill  into  action,  that  would  bear  him  along, 
whether  or  no.  But  what  should  he  do,  and 
how?  He  was  unfitted,  and  did  not  think  he 
cared,  for  settlement  work.  He  knew  nothing 
and  cared  less  for  charity  work.  Politics  were 
an  undiscovered  world  to  him.  What  he  wanted 
passionately  was  to  go  and  live  among  the  toilers, 
get  to  know  them,  and  be  the  means  of  arousing 
and  training  them. 

But  then  there  was  the  problem  of  his  mother 
— a  woman  of  sixty- three.  Could  he  leave  her 
alone?  It  was  preposterous  to  think  of  taking 
her  with  him.  Myra  could  a  thousand  times 
better  go.  He  must  talk  with  his  mother,  he 
must  thresh  the  matter  out  with  her,  he  must 
not  delay  longer  to  clear  the  issue.  And  yet  he 
hesitated.  Would  she  be  able  to  understand? 
How  could  he  communicate  what  was  bursting 
in  his  breast?  She  belonged  to  a  past  genera- 
tion; how  could  she  hear  the  far-off  drums  of 
the  advance? 

Up  and  down  the  Park  he  went  early  one 
evening  in  a  chaos  of  excitement,  and  he  had  a 
sudden  conviction  that  he  could  not  put  off  the 
moment  any  longer.  He  must  go  to  his  mother 

53 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

at  once,  he  must  tell  all.  As  he  walked  down 
the  lamp-lit  street,  under  all  the  starriness  of  a 
tranquil  autumn  night,  he  became  alternately 
pale  and  flushed,  his  heart  thumped  hard  against 
his  ribs,  he  felt  like  a  little  boy  going  to  his 
mother  to  confess  a  wrong. 

He  looked  up;  the  shades  of  the  second  floor 
were  illumined :  she  was  up  there.  Doing  what  ? 
Sharply  then  he  realized  what  a  partial  life  she 
led,  the  decayed  middle-class  associates  of  the 
boarding-house,  tired,  brainless,  and  full  of  small 
talk,  the  lonesome  evenings,  the  long  days.  He 
became  more  agitated,  and  climbed  the  stoop, 
unlocked  his  way  into  the  house,  went  up  the 
dim,  soft,  red-cushioned  stairs,  past  the  milky 
gas-globe  in  the  narrow  hall,  and  knocked  at  her 
door. 

"Come  in!"  she  cried. 

He  swung  the  door  wide  and  entered.  She 
was,  as  usual,  sitting  in  the  little  rocker  under  the 
light  and  beside  the  bureau,  between  the  bed  and 
the  window.  The  neat,  fragrant  room  seemed  to 
be  sleeping,  but  the  clear-eyed,  upright  woman 
was  very  much  awake.  She  glanced  up  from 
her  sewing  and  realized  intuitively  that  at  last 
the  crisis  had  come.  His  big,  homely  face  was 
a  bald  advertisement  of  his  boyish  excitement. 

She  nodded,  and  murmured,  "Well!" 

He  drew  up  a  chair  awkwardly,  and  sat  oppo- 
site her,  tilting  back  to  accommodate  his  sprawl- 
ing length.  Then  he  was  at  a  loss. 

54 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

''Well,"  he  muttered,  trying  to  be  careless, 
"how  are  you?" 

"All  right,"  she  said  drily. 

She  could  not  help  him,  though  her  heart  was 
beginning  to  pain  in  her  side. 

"I've  been  walking  about  the  Park,"  he  began 
again,  with  an  indifference  that  was  full  of  leaks, 
"and  thinking.  ..."  He  leaned  forward  and 
spoke  suddenly:  "Say,  mother,  don't  you  get 
tired  of  living  in  this  place  ? ' ' 

She  felt  strangely  excited,  but  answered 
guardedly. 

"It  isn't  so  bad,  Joe.  .  .  .  There  are  a  few 
decent  people  .  .  .  there's  Miss  Gardiner,  the 
librarian  .  .  .  and  I  have  books  and  sewing." 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  went  on,  clumsily,  "but 
you're  alone  a  lot." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  said,  and  all  at  once  she  felt 
that  she  could  speak  no  further  with  him.  She 
began  sewing  diligently. 

"Say,  mother!" 

No  answer. 

"Mother!" 

"Yes,"  dimly. 

His  voice  sounded  unnatural. 

"Since  the  .  .  .  fire  .  .  .  I've  been  doing 
some  thinking,  some  reading.  ..." 

"Yes." 

"I've  been  going  about  .  .  .  studying  the 
city.  ..." 

"Yes." 

55 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Now  I  want  you  to  understand,  mother.  .  .  . 
I  want  to  tell  you  of  ...  It's — well,  I  want  to 
do  something  with  my  money,  my  life.  ..." 
And  his  voice  broke,  in  spite  of  himself. 

His  mother  felt  as  if  she  were  smothering. 
But  she  waited,  and  he  went  on : 

"For  those  dead  girls,  mother  .  .  .  "  and 
sharply  came  a  dry  sob.  "And  for  all  the 
toilers.  Oh,  but  can  you  understand?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  she  looked  at  him 
from  her  youthful,  brilliant  eyes,  and  saw  only  an 
overgrown,  rather  ignorant  boy.  This  gave  her 
strength,  and,  though  it  was  painful,  she  began 
speaking : 

"Understand?  Do  you  mean  the  books  you 
are  reading?" 

"Yes,"  he  murmured. 

"Well,"  she  smiled  weakly,  "I've  been  read- 
ing them,  too." 

"You!"'  He  was  shocked.  He  looked  at  her 
as  if  she  had  revealed  a  new  woman  to  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  quickly.  "I  found  them  in 
your  room." 

He  was  amazedly  silent.  He  felt  then  that  he 
had  never  really  known  his  mother. 

"Joe,"  she  said,  tremulously,  "I  want  to  tell 
you  a  little  about  the  war.  .  .  .  There  are  things 
I  haven't  told  you. " 

And  while  he  sat,  stupefied  and  dumfounded, 
she  told  him — not  all,  but  many  things.  She 
was  back  in  the  Boston  of  the  sixties,  when  she 

56 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

was  a  young  girl,  when  that  town  was  the  literary 
center  of  America,  when  high  literature  was  in 
the  air,  when  the  poets  had  great  fame  and 
every  one,  even  the  business  man,  was  a  poet. 
She  had  seen  or  met  some  of  the  great  men. 
Once  Whittier  was  pointed  out  to  her,  at  a  time 
when  his  lines  on  slavery  were  burning  in  her 
brain.  She  had  seen  the  clear-eyed  Lowell  walk- 
ing under  the  elms  of  Cambridge,  and  she  justly 
felt  that  she  was  one  of  those 

4 '  Who  dare  to  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  three." 

Once,  even,  a  relative  of  hers,  a  writer  then 
well  known  and  now  forgotten,  had  taken  her  out 
to  see  ''the  white  Mr.  Longfellow."  It  was  one 
of  the  dream-days  of  her  life — the  large,  spacious, 
square  Colonial  house  where  once  Washington 
had  lived;  the  poet's  square  room  with  its  round 
table  and  its  high  standing  desk  in  which  he 
sometimes  wrote;  the  sloping  lawn;  the  great 
trees;  and,  better  than  anything,  the  simple, 
white-haired,  white-bearded  poet  who  took  her 
hand  so  warmly  and  spoke  so  winningly  and 
simply.  He  even  gave  her  a  scrap  of  paper  on 
which  were  written  some  of  his  anti-slavery  lines. 

Those  were  great  days — days  when  Ameri- 
ca, the  world's  experiment  in  democracy,  was 
thrown  into  those  fires  that  consume  or  purify. 
The  great  test  was  on,  whether  such  a  nation 
could  live,  and  Boston  was  athrob  with  love  of 

57 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

country  and  eagerness  to  sacrifice.  The  young, 
beautiful,  clear-eyed  girl  did  not  hesitate  a 
moment  to  urge  Henry  Elaine  to  give  up  all  and 
go  to  the  front.  It  was  like  tearing  her  own 
heart  in  two,  and,  possibly  at  a  word,  Elaine 
would  have  remained  in  Boston  and  helped  in 
some  other  way.  But  she  fought  it  out  with 
him  one  night  on  Boston  Commons,  and  she 
wished  then  that  she  was  a  man  and  could  go 
herself.  On  that  clear,  mild  night,  the  blue 
luminous  tinge  of  whose  moon  she  remembered 
so  vividly,  they  walked  up  and  down,  they 
passionately  embraced,  they  felt  the  end  of  life 
and  the  mystery  of  death,  and  then  at  last  when 
the  young  man  said:  "I'll  go!  It's  little  enough 
to  do  in  this  crisis!"  she  clung  to  him  with  pride 
and  sacred  joy  and  knew  that  life  was  very  great 
and  that  it  had  endless  possibilities. 

And  so  Henry  Elaine  went  with  his  regiment, 
and  the  black  and  terrible  years  set  in — years  in 
which  so  often  she  saw  what  Walt  Whitman 
had  seen: 

"  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 
Borne'  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierced 

with  missiles  I  saw  them, 
And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and 

torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs  (and 

all  in  silence), 

And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 
I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 
58 


GOLDEN    OCTOBER 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,   I  saw  them. 
I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers 

of  the  war, 

But  t  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought. 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffered  not, 
The    living   remain'd    and    suffer'd,    the    mother    suf- 

fer'd, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade 

suffer'd, 
And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd." 

Terrible  years,  years  of  bulletins,  years  of 
want,  hard  times,  years  when  all  the  future  was 
at  stake,  until  finally  that  day  in  New  York 
when  she  saw  the  remnant  returning,  marching 
up  Broadway  between  the  black  crowds  and  the 
bunting,  the  drums  beating,  the  fifes  playing, 

"  Returning,  with  thinned  ranks,  young,  yet  very  old, 
worn,  marching,  noticing  nothing." 

Henry  Elaine  was  one  of  these  and  he  came  to 
her  a  cripple,  an  emaciated  and  sick  man.  Then 
had  followed,  as  Joe  knew,  the  marriage,  the  hard 
pioneer  life  in  the  shanty  on  the  stony  hill,  the 
death,  and  the  long  widowhood  .  .  . 

Had  she  not  a  right  to  speak  to  him  ? 

"Understand?"  she  ended.  "I  think,  Joe,  I 
ought  to  understand.  ...  I  sent  your  father 
into  the  war.  ..." 

Depth  beneath  depth  he  was  discovering  her. 
He  was  amazed  and  awed.  He  asked  himself 
where  he  had  been  all  these  years,  and  how  he 

59 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

had  been  so  blind.  He  felt  very  young  then. 
It  was  she  who  actually  knew  what  the  word 
social  and  the  word  patriotism  meant. 

He  looked  down  on  the  floor,  and  spoke  in  a 
whisper : 

"And  .  .  .  would  you  send  me  off,  too?  The 
new  war?" 

She  could  scarcely  speak. 

"Whereto?" 

"I  ...  oh,  I'll  have  to  go  down  in  a  tene- 
ment somewhere — the  slums.  ..." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said;  quietly,  "I'll  go  with 
you." 

"But  you — "  he  exclaimed,  almost  adding, 
"an  old  woman  "  — "  it's  impossible,  mother. " 

She  answered  him  with  the  same  quietness. 

"You  forget  the  shanty.  " 

And  then  it  was  clear  to  him.  Like  an  electric 
bolt  it  shot  him,  thrilling,  stirring  his  heart  and 
soul.  She  would  go  with  him;  more  than  that, 
she  should.  It  was  her  right,  won  by  years  of 
actual  want  and  struggle  and  service.  More,  it 
was  her  escape  from  a  flat,  stale,  meaningless 
boarding-house  existence.  Suddenly  he  felt  that 
she  was  really  his  mother,  knit  to  him  by  ties  un- 
breakable, a  terrible  thing  in  its  miraculousness. 

But  he  only  said,  in  a  strained  voice, 

"All  right,  mother!" 

And  she  laughed,  and  mused,  and  murmured: 

"How  does  the  world  manage  to  keep  so  new 
and  young?" 

60 


MYRA    AND    JOE 

MYRA  CRAIG  used  to  dream  at  night  that 
the  fifty-seven  members  of  her  class  arose 
from  their  desks  with  wild  shrieks  and  danced  a 
war-dance  about  her.  This  paralyzed  her  throat, 
her  hands,  and  her  feet,  and  she  could  only  stand, 
flooded  with  horror,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
school  principal  and  disgrace.  Out  of  this 
teacher's  dream  she  always  awoke  disgusted 
with  school- work. 

Myra  came  from  Fall  River — her  parents  still 
lived  there — came  when  she  was  ten  years 
younger,  to  seek  her  fortune  in  the  great  city. 
New  York  had  drawn  her  as  it  draws  all  the 
youth  of  the  land,  for  youth  lusts  for  life  and 
rushes  eagerly  to  the  spot  where  life  is  most  in- 
tense and  most  exciting.  The  romance  of 
crowds,  of  wealth,  of  art,  of  concentrated  plea- 
sure and  concentrated  vice,  of  immense  money- 
power,  the  very  architecture  of  the  world-city, 
the  maelstrom  of  people,  drew  the  young  Fall 
River  woman  irresistibly.  She  did  not  want  the 
even  and  smooth  future  of  a  little  town;  she 
wanted  to  plunge  into  the  hazardous  inter- 

61 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

weaving  of  the  destinies  of  millions  of  people. 
She  wanted  to  grasp  at  some  of  the  magic  oppor- 
tunities of  the  city.  She  wanted  a  career. 

And  so  she  came.  Early  that  June  morning 
she  left  her  cabin  on  the  Sound  steamboat  and 
went  out  on  deck,  and  then  she  had  unfolded  to 
her  the  most  thrilling  scene  of  the  earth.  Gazing, 
almost  panting  with  excitement,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  the  nature  she  had  known — the  hills 
and  fields  of  New  England — shrank  to  littleness. 
First  there  was  all  about  her  the  sway  of  the  East 
River,  golden  -  flecked  with  the  morning  sun, 
which  glowed  through  a  thin  haze.  From  either 
shore  a  city  climbed,  topped  with  steeples  and 
mill  chimneys — floods  of  tenements  and  homes. 
Then  the  boat  swept  under  the  enormous  steel 
bridges  which  seemed  upheld  by  some  invisible 
power  and  throbbed  with  life  above  them.  And 
then,  finally,  came  the  Vision  of  the  City.  The 
wide  expanse  of  rolling,  slapping  water  was  busy 
with  innumerable  harbor  craft,  crowded  ferries, 
puffing  tugs,  each  wafting  its  plume  of  smoke  and 
white  steam;  but  from  those  waters  rose  tier 
after  tier  of  square-set  skyscrapers  climbing  in 
an  irregular  hill  to  the  thin  peak  of  the  highest 
tower.  In  the  golden  haze,  shot  with  sun,  the 
whole  block  of  towers  loomed  distant,  gigantic, 
shadowy,  unreal — a  magic  city  floating  on  the 
waters  of  the  morning.  Windows  flashed,  spirals 
of  white  smoke  spun  thin  from  the  far  roofs. 
Myra  thought  of  those  skyscrapers  as  the  big 

62 


MYRA    AND    JOE 

brothers  of  the  island  gazing  out  over  the 
Atlantic. 

The  boat  rounded  the  tip  of  the  island,  furrow- 
ing the  broad  surface  of  the  bay,  which  seemed  as 
the  floor  of  a  stage  before  that  lifting  huge  sky- 
lost  amphitheater.  Every  advance  changed  the 
many-faceted  beauty  of  New  York,  and  Myra, 
gazing,  had  one  glimpse  across  little  green  Bat- 
tery Park  up  the  deep  twilit  canon  of  Broad- 
way, the  city's  spine.  The  young  woman  was 
moved  to  tears.  She  seemed  to  slough  off  at 
that  moment  the  church  of  her  youth,  averring 
that  New  York  was  too  big  for  a  creed.  It  was 
the  great  human  outworking;  the  organism  of 
the  mighty  many.  It  seemed  a  miracle  that  all 
this  splendor  and  wonder  had  been  wrought  by 
human  hands.  Surely  human  nature  was  great 
—greater  than  she  had  dreamed.  If  creatures 
like  herself  had  wrought  this,  then  she  was  more 
than  she  had  dared  to  imagine,  "  deeper  than  ever 
plummet  had  sounded."  She  felt  new  courage, 
new  faith.  She  wanted  to  leave  the  boat  and 
merge  with  those  buildings  and  those  swarming 
streets.  She  was  proud  of  the  great  captains 
who  had  engineered  this  masswork,  proud  of  the 
powers  that  ruled  this  immensity. 

But  beyond  all  she  felt  the  city's  livingness. 
The  air  seemed  charged  with  human  activity, 
with  toil*pulsations.  She  was  all  crowded  about 
with  human  beings,  and  felt  the  mystery  of 
what  might  be  termed  crowd -touch.  Here, 

63 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

surely,  was  life — life  thick,  happy,  busy,  daring, 
ideal.  Here  was  pioneering — a  reaching  forth  to 
a  throbbing  future.  So,  as  the  boat  landed,  she 
mentally  identified  herself  with  this  city,  labeled 
herself  New-Yorker,  and  became  one  of  its 
millions. 

Her  rapture  lasted  throughout  her  first  stay. 
She  tasted  romance  glancing  in  shop  windows 
or  moving  in  a  crowd  or  riding  in  an  elevated 
train.  A  letter  of  introduction  to  a  friend  of  her 
mother's  secured  her  a  companion,  who  "  showed 
her  the  sights"  and  helped  her  choose  her  board- 
ing-house in  East  Eightieth  Street.  And  then 
came  the  examinations  for  public-school  teach- 
ing ;  and  after  these  she  went  home  for  the  sum- 
mer, returning  to  New  York  in  the  fall. 

Then  her  new  life  began,  the  rapture  ceased, 
and  Myra  Craig,  like  so  many  others,  found  that 
her  existence  in  the  city  was  just  as  narrow  as  it 
had  been  in  the  town.  In  some  ways,  more 
narrow.  She  was  quite  without  friends,  quite 
without  neighborhood.  Her  day  consisted  in 
teaching  from  9  A.M.  to  3  P.M.,  correcting  papers 
and  planning  lessons  and  making  reports  until 
well  into  the  evening,  sometimes  until  late  in  the 
night,  and  meeting  at  meals  unfriendly  people 
that  she  disliked.  Her  class  was  composed  of 
rather  stupid,  rather  dirty  children.  They  smelted 
— a  thing  she  never  forgave  them.  And  what 
could  one  woman  do  with  fifty  or  sixty  children  ? 
The  class  was  at  least  three  times  too  big  for  real 

64 


MYRA    AND   JOE 

teaching,  and  so  almost  inevitably  a  large  part 
of  the  work  became  routine — a  grind  that  spoiled 
her  temper  and  embittered  her  heart.  Her 
fellow- teachers  were  an  ignorant  lot;  the  princi- 
pal himself  she  thought  the  biggest  lump  of 
stupidity  she  had  ever  met — a  man  demanding 
letter-perfection  and  caring  not  one  rap  for  .the 
growth  of  children.  Her  week-ends  were  her 
only  relief,  and  she  used  these  partly  for  resting 
and  partly  in  going  to  theater  and  concert. 

Such  for  ten  years — with  summers  spent  at 
home — was  Myra's  life.  It  was  bounded  by  a 
few  familiar  streets;  it  was  largely  routine;  it 
was  hard  and  bitter;  and  it  had  no  future.  It 
was  anything  but  what  she  had  dreamed.  New 
York  was  anything  but  what  she  had  dreamed. 
She  never  saw  again  that  Vision  of  the  City ;  never 
felt  again  that  throb  of  life,  that  sense  of  pioneer- 
ing and  of  human  power.  And  yet  in  those 
years  Myra  had  developed.  She  was  thrown 
back  on  books  for  friendship,  and  through  these 
and  through  hard  work  and  through  very  routine 
she  developed  personality — grew  sensitive,  men- 
tally quick,  metropolitan.  She  had,  as  it  were, 
her  own  personal  flavor — one  felt  in  her  presence 
a  difference,  a  uniqueness  quite  precious  and 
exquisite. 

And  then  one  day  she  had  gone  to  the  printery 

and  met  a  man  who  was  homely,  rough,  simple, 

and,  in  spite  of  her  revulsion  from  these  qualities, 

was  immensely  drawn  to  him.    Something  deeper 

5  65 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

than  the  veneer  of  her  culture  overpowered  her. 
She  had  almost  forgotten  sex  in  the  aridity  of 
those  ten  years;  she  had  almost  become  a  dried 
old  maid ;  but  now  by  the  new  color  in  her  cheeks, 
the  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  the  fresh  rapidity  of  her 
blood,  and  through  the  wonder  of  the  world 
having  become  more  light,  as  if  there  were  two 
suns  in  the  sky  instead  of  one — yes,  through  the 
fact  that  she  lived  now  at  ten  human -power  in- 
stead of  one — her  heart  told  her  exultingly, 
"  You  are  a  woman. " 

Girlhood  had  come  again,  but  girlhood  made 
all  woman  by  immense  tenderness,  by  the  up- 
rush  of  a  wild  love,  and  by  the  awakening  of  all 
her  instincts  of  home  and  mating  and  child- 
bearing.  And  then  had  come  that  mad,  wind- 
blown twilight  at  the  riverside  when  the  spirit  of 
life  had  drenched  her  and  she  had  become  grave, 
tender,  and  wrought  of  all  lovely  power.  Joe 
was  just  a  boy  then  to  her,  and  her  great  woman- 
heart  drew  him  in  and  sheltered  him  in  the  sacred 
warmth  of  her  being.  In  that  moment  she  had 
reached  the  highest  point  of  her  womanhood,  a 
new  unfolding,  a  new  release.  And  then  had 
come  horror,  and  he  had  been  swept  away  from 
her — one  glimpse  of  his  numb,  ghastly  face,  and 
he  was  gone. 

It  was  Fannie  Lemick  that  took  her  home. 
She  only  knew  that  she  was  being  led  away,  while 
crashing  through  her  mind  went  flames,  smoke, 
the  throbbing  of  the  engines,  and  the  words: 

66 


MYRA    AND    JOE 

"I  may  never  see  you  again  .  .  .  dead  girls.  .  .  ." 
All  that  night  she  tossed  about  in  a  horror,  and 
in  the  morning  she  feverishly  read  the  terrible 
news  until  she  thought  she  must  swoon  away. 
She  became  sick;  the  landlady  had  to  come  up 
and  help  her;  the  doctor  had  to  be  sent  for,  and 
he  had  told  her  that  this  nervous  breakdown  had 
been  long  overdue;  she  had  been  working  under 
too  great  a  strain ;  it  only  needed  some  shock  to 
break  her. 

But  while  she  lay  in  a  sick  fever  her  heart  went 
out  to  Joe.  If  she  only  could  be  at  his  side, 
nerve  him  to  the  fight,  protect  him  and  soothe 
him.  She  knew  that  his  whole  old  life  had  been 
consumed  in  that  fire,  and  lay  in  ruins,  and  she 
felt  subtly  that  he  had  been  taken  from  her. 
By  one  blow,  at  the  very  moment  of  the  miracle 
of  their  love,  they  had  been  torn  from  each 
other.  She  did  not  want  to  live ;  she  hoped  that 
she  had  some  serious  disease  that  would  kill  her. 

But  she  did  live;  she  became  better,  and  then 
in  a  mood  of  passionate  tenderness  she  wrote  her 
first  little  love-letter  to  Joe.  She  went  about,  do- 
ing her  school-work  and  bearing  the  weight  of 
intolerable  lonely  days,  and  he  had  written  twice, 
just  a  word  to  her,  a  word  of  delay.  What  kept 
him?  What  was  he  doing?  She  read  of  his 
testimony  at  the  inquest  and  became  indignant 
because  he  blamed  himself.  Who  was  to  blame 
for  such  an  accident  ?  It  was  not  his  cigarette 
that  had  started  the  blaze.  In  her  overwrought 

67 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

condition  she  passed  from  a  terrible  love  to  a 
sharp  hate,  and  back  and  forth.  Was  he  a  fool 
or  was  he  more  noble  than  she  could  fathom? 
He  should  have  seen  her  sooner,  he  should  not 
have  left  her  a  prey  to  her  morbid  thoughts. 
Time  and  again  she  became  convinced  that  he 
had  ceased  to  love  her,  that  he  was  more  con- 
cerned over  his  burnt  printery.  She  twisted 
his  letters  against  him.  She  would  sit  in  her 
room  trying  to  work  at  her  school  papers,  and 
suddenly  she  would  clench  her  fists,  turn  pale, 
and  stare  despairingly  at  the  blank  wall. 

Day  after  day  she  waited,  starting  up  every 
time  she  heard  the  postman's  whistle  and  the 
ringing  of  the  bell.  And  then  at  last  one  night, 
as  she  paced  up  and  down  the  narrow  white  little 
room,  she  heard  the  landlady  climbing  the  stairs, 
advancing  along  the  hall,  and  there  was  a  sharp 
rap.  She  felt  faint  and  dizzy,  flung  open  the 
door,  took  the  letter,  and  sank  down  on  the  bed, 
hardly  daring  to  open  it. 

It  was  brief  and  cold : 

DEAR  MYRA, — I  know  you  are  up  early,  so  I  am 
coming  around  at  seven  to-morrow  morning — I'll  be 
out  in  the  street  and  wait  for  you.  We  can  go  to  the 
Park.  I  have  some  serious  problems  to  lay  before 
you.  JOE. 

"Serious  problems!"  She  understood.  He 
was  paving  the  way  for  renouncing  her.  Perhaps 
it  was  a  money  matter — he  thought  he  ought  not 
marry  on  a  reduced  income.  Or  perhaps  he 

68 


MYRA   AND   JOE 

found  he  didn't  love  her.  For  hours  she  sat 
there  with  the  letter  crumpled  in  her  hand, 
frozen,  inert,  until  she  was  incapable  of  feeling  or 
thinking.  So  he  was  coming  at  seven.  He 
took  it  for  granted  that  she  would  be  ready  to  see 
him — would  be  eager  to  walk  in  the  Park  with 
him.  Well,  what  if  she  didn't  go?  A  fine  letter 
that,  after  that  half-hour  at  the  riverside.  A 
love-letter!  She  laughed  bitterly.  And  then 
her  heart  seemed  to  break  within  her.  Life  was 
too  hard.  Why  had  she  ever  left  the  peace  and 
quiet  of  Fall  River  ?  Why  had  she  come  down  to 
the  cruel,  careless,  vicious  city  to  be  ground  up  in 
a  wholesale  school  system  and  then  to  break  her 
heart  for  an  uncouth,  half-educated  printer? 
It  was  all  too  hard,  too  cruel.  Why  had  she 
been  born  to  suffer  so?  Why  must  she  tingle 
now  with  pain,  when  in  a  few  years  she  would  be 
unfeeling  dust  again?  Among  all  the  millions 
of  the  people  of  the  earth,  among  all  the  life  of 
earth  and  the  circling  million  scattered  worlds, 
she  felt  utterly  isolated,  defrauded,  betrayed. 
Life  was  a  terrible  gift,  and  she  did  not  want  it. 
This  whirl  of  emotion  rose  and  rose  in  her,  went 
insanely  through  her  brain,  and,  becoming  in- 
tolerable, suddenly  ceased  and  left  her  careless, 
numb,  and  hard. 

She  arose  mechanically  and  looked  in  the  glass 
at  herself.     Her  face  was  haggard. 

''I'm    getting    homely/'    she    thought,    and 
quietly  went  to  bed. 

69 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

But  in  the  night  she  awoke  to  a  swift  frenzy 
of  joy.  He  was  coming.  After  all,  he  was 
coming.  She  would  see  him.  She  would  be 
near  him  again.  Yes,  how  she  loved  him!  loved 
with  all  her  nature.  It  was  the  intensity  of  her 
love  that  made  her  hate.  And  she  lay  throbbing 
with  joy,  her  whole  being  quivering  with  desire 
for  him.  He  was  hers,  after  all.  It  was  the 
woman's  part  to  forgive  and  forget. 

But  when  the  morning  broke,  and  she  arose  in 
her  nightgown  and  sat  on  the  chair  at  the  win- 
dow, smoothing  out  and  rereading  the  letter,  her 
doubts  returned.  He  was  coming  to  renounce 
her.  He  would  make  all  sorts  of  plausible 
excuses,  he  would  be  remorseful  and  penitent, 
but  it  all  came  to  the  same  end.  Why  should 
she  go  and  meet  him  to  be  humiliated  in  this 
way  ?  She  would  not  go. 

Yet  she  rose  and  dressed  with  unusual  care 
and  tried  to  smile  back  the  radiance  of  her  face, 
and  fixed  her  hair  this  way  and  that  in  a  pitiful 
attempt  to  take  away  the  sharpness  of  her  expres- 
sion, and  when  her  little  clock  showed  seven  she 
put  on  hat  and  coat  with  trembling  hands  and 
went  swiftly  down  and  out  at  the  front  door. 
She  was  shaking  with  terrible  emotions,  fire 
filled  and  raged  in  her  breast,  and  she  had  to 
bite  her  lip  to  keep  it  still. 

The  city  flashed  before  her  in  all  the  sparkle  of 
October,  the  air  tingled,  and  in  the  early  morning 
light  the  houses,  the  street,  looked  as  bright  and 

70 


MYRA    AND    JOE 

fresh  as  young  school-children  washed,  combed, 
bright-eyed,  new  with  sleep,  and  up  from  roofs 
went  magic  veilings  of  flimsy  smoke.  Down  the 
avenues  clanged  cars  black  with  mechanics, 
clerks,  and  shop-girls  on  the  way  to  work;  people 
streamed  hurrying  to  their  day's  toil.  The  city 
was  awake,  shaking  in  every  part  of  her  with 
glad  breakfast  and  the  rush  to  activity.  What 
colossal  forces  swinging  in,  swinging  out  of  the 
metropolis  in  long  pulsations  of  freight  and 
ship  and  electricity!  Wall  Street  would  roar, 
the  skyscrapers  swarm,  the  schools  drone  and 
murmur  and  sing,  the  mills  grind  and  rattle,  and 
the  six  continents  and  the  seven  seas  would 
pulse  their  blood  into  the  city  and  be  flushed  by 
her  radiating  tides.  Into  this  hidden  activity 
Myra  stepped,  deaf  and  blind  to  all  but  the 
clamor  of  her  heart  and  a  single  man  walking  like 
a  black  pawn  aureoled  in  the  low  early  sunlight. 
She  came  down  slowly,  as  he  came  up.  She 
glanced  at  his  face.  She  was  shocked  by  its 
suffering,  its  gray  age.  He  looked  quite  shabby 
in  his  long  frayed  coat,  his  unpolished  shoes,  his 
gray  slouch  hat — shabby  and  homely,  and  ill- 
proportioned,  stooping  a  little,  his  rough  shock  of 
hair  framing  the  furrowed  face  and  sunken 
melancholy  eyes.  And  it  was  for  this  man  that 
she  had  been  breaking  her  heart!  Yet,  at  the 
moment  there  swept  over  her  an  awful  surge  of 
passion,  so  strong  that  she  could  have  seized  him 
in  her  arms  and  died  in  his  embrace. 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

He,  in  turn,  saw  how  white  and  set  her  face 
was,  how  condemnatory.  He  had  come  to  her 
almost  ready  to  throw  his  plans  overboard  and 
cleave  to  her — for  a  day  and  a  night  that  side  of 
his  nature  had  dominated,  expunging  all  else, 
driving  him  to  her,  demanding  that  he  grasp  her 
magic  presence,  her  womanly  splendor.  This 
alone  was  real,  and  all  the  rest  fantastic.  And 
he  had  walked  up  and  down  the  street  with  all 
the  October  morning  singing  in  his  blood;  the 
world  was  glorious  again  and  he  was  young;  he 
would  take  her,  he  would  forget  all  else,  and 
they  would  go  off  somewhere  in  the  wilderness 
and  really  live.  He  had  never  lived  yet.  He 
thirsted  for  life,  he  thirsted  for  all  this  woman 
could  give  him.  And  now  the  condemnation  in 
her  face  choked  him  off,  made  her  a  stranger, 
separated  them,  made  it  hard  to  speak  to  her. 

He  cried  in  a  low  voice : 

"Myra!" 

The  word  was  charged  with  genuine  passion, 
and  she  became  more  pale,  and  stood  unable  to 
find  her  tongue,  her  lips  quivering  painfully. 

Then  suddenly  there  was  a  nervous  overflow. 

"You  wanted  to  walk  in  the  Park,"  she 
blurted  in  a  cold,  uneven  voice.  ' '  We'd  better  be 
going  then.  I  won't  have  much  time.  I've 
got  to  be  at  school  early. " 

She  started  off,  and  he  strode  beside  her. 
They  walked  in  a  strange  slow  silence,  each 
charged  with  inexpressible,  conflicting  emotions, 

72 


MYRA    AND   JOE 

and  each  waiting  for  the  other.  This  strain  was 
impossible,  and  finally  Joe  began  speaking  in 
low  tones. 

"I  know  it  seems  queer  that  I  haven't  been  to 
see  you  .  .  .  but  you'll  understand,  I  couldn't. 
There  was  so  much  to  do.  .  .  . " 

He  stopped,  and  then  again  came  the  cold, 
uneven  voice: 

"You  could  have  found  a  moment. " 

They  went  on  in  silence,  and  entered  the  Park, 
following  the  walk  where  it  swept  its  curve  along- 
side the  tree-arched  roadway,  past  low  green 
hills  to  the  right  and  the  sinking  lawns  to  the 
left,  crossed  the  roadway,  and  climbed  the  steep 
path  that  gave  on  to  the  Ramble — that  twisty 
little  wilderness  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  that 
remote,  wild,  magic  tangle. 

A  little  pond  lay  in  the  very  center  of  it,  all 
deep  with  the  blue  sky,  and  golden  October 
gloried  all  about  it — swaying  in  wild-tinted  tree- 
tops,  blowing  in  dry  leaves,  sparkling  on  every 
spot  of  wet,  and  all  suffused  and  splashed  and 
strangely  fresh  with  the  low,  red,  radiant  sunlight. 
There  was  splendor  in  the  place,  and  the  air 
dripped  with  glorious  life,  and  through  it  all 
went  the  lovers,  silent,  estranged,  pitiable. 

"We  can  sit  here, "  said  Joe. 

It  was  a  bench  under  a  tree,  facing  the  pond. 
They  sat  down,  each  gazing  on  the  ground,  and 
the  leaves  dropped  on  them,  and  squirrels  ran  up 
to  them,  tufted  their  tails  and  begged  for  peanuts 

73 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

with  lustrous  beady  eyes,  and  now  and  then 
some  early  walker  or  some  girl  or  man  on  the 
way  to  work  swung  lustily  past  and  disap- 
peared in  foliage  and  far  low  vistas  of  tree 
trunks. 

The  suspense  became  intolerable  again.  Joe 
turned  a  little  to  her. 

"Myra!" 

She  was  trembling ;  a  moment  more  she  would 
be  in  his  arms,  sobbing,  forgiving  him.  But  she 
hurried  on  in  an  unnatural  way. 

"You  wanted  to  speak  to  me — I'm  waiting. 
Why  don't  you  speak  ? " 

It  was  a  blow  in  the  face ;  his  own  voice  hard- 
ened then. 

"You're  making  it  very  hard  for  me. " 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  had  to  go  on. 

"After  the  fire — "  his  voice  snapped,  and  it 
was  a  space  before  he  went  on,  "I  felt  I  was 
guilty.  ...  I  went  to  a  mass-meeting  and  one  of 
the  speakers  accused  the  .  .  .  class  I  belong  to 
...  of  failing  in  their  duty.  .  .  .  She  said  ..." 

Myra  spoke  sharply: 

"Who  said?" 

"Miss  Heffer." 

"Oh!" 

Joe  felt  suddenly  silenced.  Something  unplea- 
sant was  creeping  in  between  them.  He  did  not 
know  enough  of  women,  either,  to  divine  how 
Myra  was  suffering,  to  know  that  she  had  reached 
a  nervous  pitch  where  she  was  hardly  responsible 

74 


MYRA    AND   JOE 

for  what  she  thought  and  said.     He  went  on 
blunderingly : 

"  I  felt  that  I  was  accused.  ...  I  felt  that  I  had 
to  make  reparation  to  the  toilers,  .  .  .  had  to 
spend  my  life  making  conditions  better.  .  .  . 
You  see  this  country  has  reached  a  crisis  ..." 

It  was  all  gibberish  to  her. 

"Exactly  what  do  you  mean?"  she  asked, 
sharply. 

' '  I  mean  "  —he  fumbled  for  words — * '  I  must  go 
and  live  among  the  poor  and  arouse  them  and 
teach  them  of  the  great  change  that  is  taking 
place.  .  .  .  ' 

She  laughed  strangely. 

"Oh — an  uplifter,  settlement  work,  charity 
work—" 

He  was  stupefied. 

"Myra,  can't  you  see — " 

"Yes,  I  see,"  she  said,  raising  her  voice  a 
little;  "you're  going  to  live  in  the  slums  and 
you  want  me  to  release  you.  I  do.  Anything 
else?" 

She  was  making  something  sordid  of  his  beauti- 
ful dream,  and  she  was  startlingly  direct.  He 
was  cut  to  the  heart. 

"You're  making  it  impossible,"  he  began. 

She  laughed  a  little,  stroking  down  her  muff. 

"So  you're  going  to  live  among  the  poor  .  .  . 
and  you  didn't  dare  come  and  tell  me.  ..." 

"I  had  no  right  to  involve  you  until  I  was 
sure.  .  ,  ." 

75 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"And  now  you 're  sure.  ..." 

"No,  "he  cried. 

She  raised  her  voice  a  little  again : 

"And  I  wrote  asking  if  I  couldn't  help  you. 
Women  are  fools.  ..." 

He  sat  searching  about  for  something  to  say. 
His  heart  was  like  cold  lead-in  his  breast;  his 
head  ached.  He  felt  her  side  of  the  case  very 
vividly,  and  how  could  she  ever  understand? 

Then,  as  she  sat  there  her  head  seemed  to 
explode,  and  she  spoke  hurriedly,  incoherently: 

"It's  time  to  get  to  school.  I  want  to  go  alone. 
Good-by." 

She  rose  and  went  off  rapidly. 

"Myra!"  he  cried,  leaping  up,  but  she  only 
accelerated  her  pace.  .  .  . 

Instead  of  going  to  school  she  went  straight 
home,  flung  herself  full-length  on  the  bed,  buried 
her  face  in  the  pillow,  and  shook  for  a  long  time 
with  terrible  tearless  sobs.  Her  life  was  ruined 
within  her. 


VI 

MARTY  BRIGGS 

JOE  went  home  in  a  distraught  condition.  He 
was  angry,  amazed,  and  passion  -  shaken. 
He  had  had  a  look  into  that  strange  mixture 
which  is  woman — and  he  was  repelled,  and  yet 
attracted  as  he  had  never  been  before.  He  felt 
that  all  was  over  between  them,  that  somehow 
she  had  convicted  him  of  being  brutal,  selfish, 
and  unmanly,  and  in  the  light  of  her  condemna- 
tion he  saw  in  his  delay  to  meet  her  only  coward- 
ice and  harsh  indifference.  And  yet  all  along  he 
had  acted  on  the  conclusion  that  he  had  no  right 
to  ask  a  woman  to  go  into  the  danger  of  his  work 
with  him. 

Pacing  up  and  down  his  narrow  room,  he  began 
lashing  himself  again,  excusing,  forgiving  Myra 
everything.  He  had  never  really  understood 
her  nature;  he  should  have  gone  to  her  in  the 
beginning  and  trusted  to  her  love  and  her  in- 
sight ;  he  should  have  let  her  share  the  aftermath 
of  the  fire;  that  fierce  experience  would  have 
taught  her  that  he  was  forever  mortgaged  to  a 
life  of  noble  reparation,  and  even  the  terror  of  it 

77 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

all  would  have  been  better  than  shutting  her  out, 
to  brood  morbidly  alone. 

Yet,  what  could  he  do?  He  must  be  strong, 
be  wise,  keep  his  head.  He  had  pledged  himself, 
sworn  himself  into  the  service  of  the  working- 
class  movement.  There  was  no  escape.  He 
tried  to  bury  himself  in  his  books,  regain  for  a 
moment  his  splendid  dream  of  the  future  state, 
feel  again  those  strange  throes  of  world-building, 
of  social  service. 

And  out  of  it  all  grew  a  letter,  a  letter  to  Myra. 
He  wrote  it  in  a  strange  haste,  the  sentences 
coming  too  rapidly  for  his  pen.  It  ran : 

DEAR  MYRA, — I  must  make  you  understand!  I  hurt 
you  when  I  wanted  to  help  you;  I  wronged  you  when 
I  wanted  only  to  do  right  by  you.  Why  didn't  you 
listen  to  me  this  morning? 

It  was  at  the  fire  there,  at  that  moment  you  tugged 
at  my  sleeve  and  I  spoke  to  you,  that  I  saw  clearly  that 
my  life  was  no  longer  my  own,  that  I  could  not  even 
give  it  to  you,  whom  I  loved,  whom  I  love  now  with 
every  bit  of  my  existence.  I  told  you  I  belonged  to 
those  dead  girls.  Have  you  forgotten  ?  Sixty  of  them 
— and  three  of  my  men.  It  was  as  if  I  had  killed  them 
myself.  I  am  a  guilty  man,  and  I  must  expiate  this 
guilt.  There  is  no  use  fooling  myself  with  pleasant 
phrases,  no  use  thinking  others  to  blame.  It  was  I 
who  was  responsible. 

And  through  the  death  of  those  girls  I  learned  of  the 
misery  of  the  world,  of  the  millions  in  want,  the  women 
wrenched  from  their  homes  to  toil  in  the  mills,  the 
little  children — fresh,  sweet  bodies,  bubbling  hearts, 
and  tender,  whimsical  minds — slaving  in  factories, 
tiny  boys  and  girls  laboring  like  men  and  women  in 

78 


MARTY    BRIGGS 

cotton  and  knitting  mills,  in  glass  factory  and  coal- 
mine, and  on  the  streets  of  cities,  upon  whose  frail  little 
spirits  is  thrust  the  responsibility,  the  wage  burden,  the 
money,  and  family  trouble,  the  care  and  drudgery  and 
mortal  burden  we  grown  people  ourselves  not  seldom 
find  too  hard.  I  have  learned  of  a  world  gone  wrong; 
I  have  learned  of  a  new  slavery  on  earth;  and  I  as  a 
member  of  the  master  class  share  the  general  guilt  for 
the  suffering  of  the  poor.  ...  I  must  help  to  free 
them  from  the  very  conditions  that  killed  the  sixty 
girls.  .  .  . 

And  when  I  think  of  those  girls  and  their  families 
(some  of  them  were  the  sole  support  of  their  mothers 
and  sisters  and  brothers)  the  least  I  can  do  is  to  render 
up  my  life  for  the  lives  that  were  lost — the  least  I  can 
do  is  to  fill  myself  with  the  spirit  of  the  dead  and 
go  forth,  not  to  avenge  them,  but  to  help  build  a 
world  where  the  living  will  not  be  sacrificed  as  they 
were. 

This  country  is  facing  a  great  crisis;  civilization  is 
facing  a  great  crisis.  Shall  we  go  forward  or  be  drawn 
backward  ?  There  is  a  call  to  arms  and  every  man  must 
offer  his  life  in  the  great  fight — that  fight  for  democracy, 
that  fight  for  lifting  up  the  millions  to  new  levels  of 
life,  that  fight  for  a  better  earth  and  a  superber  race 
of  human  beings;  and  in  that  fight  I  am  with  the 
pioneers,  heart  and  soul;  I  am  ringing  with  the  joy 
and  struggle  of  it;  I  am  for  it,  with  all  my  strength  and 
all  my  power.  It  demands  everything;  its  old  cry, 
"Arise,  arise,  and  follow  me:"  means  giving  up  pos- 
sessions, giving  away  all,  making  every  sacrifice.  Be- 
fore this  issue  our  little  lives  shrink  into  nothingness, 
and  we  must  sink  our  happiness  into  the  future  of  the 
world. 

How  can  I  ask  you  to  go  into  the  peril,  the  dirt,  and 
disease  of  this  struggle?  And  how  can  I  refrain  from 
going  in  myself  ?  Let  me  see  you  once  more.  Do  not 

79 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

deny  me  that.  And  understand  that  through  life  my 
love  will  follow  you  ...  a  love  greatened,  I  trust,  by 
what  little  I  do  in  the  great  cause.  .  .  . 

Ever  yours,  JOE 

He  waited  for  an  answer  and  none  came,  and 
he  felt  during  those  days  that  the  life  was  being 
dragged  out  of  him.  Feverishly  then  he  buried 
himself  in  his  tasks  and  his  books,  he  went  on 
cramming  himself  with  theories  until  he  reached 
the  bursting-point  and  wanted  to  go  out  on  fire 
with  mission,  almost  a  fanatic,  an  Isaiah  to  shake 
the  city  with  invective  and  prophesy  change. 
What  could  he  do  to  spread  the  tidings,  the 
news  ?  The  time  had  come  to  find  an  outlet  for 
the  overbearing  flood  within  him.  And  then  one 
evening  in  the  Park  like  a  flash  came  the  plan. 
He  must  go  among  the  poor,  he  must  get  to  know 
them — not  in  this  neighborhood,  "a  prophet  is 
not  without  honor,  etc." — but  in  some  new 
place  where  he  was  unknown.  He  thought  of 
Greenwich  Village.  Did  not  Fannie  Lemick  tell 
him  that  Sally  Heff er  lived  in  Greenwich  Village  ? 
Well,  he  would  look  into  the  matter.  He  was  a 
printer ;  why  not  then  print  a  little  weekly  news- 
paper directly  for  the  toilers,  for  his  neighbors? 
He  could  tell  all  that  way,  pour  out  his  enlighten- 
ment, stir  them,  stand  by  them,  take  part  in 
their  activities,  their  troubles  and  their  strikes 
and  lead  them  forth  to  a  new  life.  He  was  sure 
they  were  ripe  for  the  facts,  powder  awaiting 
the  spark;  he  would  go  down  among  them  and 

80 


MARTY    BRIGGS 

make  his  paper  the  center  of  their  disorganized 
life. 

The  more  he  thought  of  the  plan  the  more  it 
thrilled  him.  What  was  greater  than  the  power 
of  the  press?  What  more  direct?  He  was 
done  with  palliatives,  finding  men  jobs,  giving 
Christmas  turkeys,  paying  for  coal.  What  the 
people  needed  was  education  so  that  they  could 
get  justice — all  else  would  follow. 

But  even  at  that  perfervid  period  of  his  life 
Joe  was  saved  from  being  a  John  Brown  by  his 
sense  of  humor.  This  was  the  imp  in  him  that 
always  poked  a  little  doubt  into  his  heart  and 
laughed  at  his  ignorance  and  innocence.  By 
next  morning  Joe  was  smiling  at  himself.  Never- 
theless, he  was  driven  ahead. 

He  called  for  Marty  Briggs  and  they  went  to 
lunch  together.  Third  Avenue  lay  naked  to  the 
rain,  which  swept  forward  in  silvery  gusts,  drip- 
ping, dripping  from  the  elevated  structure,  and 
the  pattering  liquid  sound  had  a  fresh  mellow 
music.  Here  and  there  a  man  or  woman,  mush- 
roomed by  an  umbrella,  dashed  quickly  for  a  car, 
and  the  trolleys,  gray  and  crowded,  seemed  to 
duck  hurriedly  under  the  downpour.  The  faces 
of  Joe  and  Marty  were  fresh-washed  and  spatter- 
ing drops ;  they  laughed  together  as  they  walked. 

"I've  some  business  to  talk  over  with  you," 

explained  Joe,  and  they  finally  went  into  a  little 

restaurant  on  Third  Avenue.     The  stuffy  little 

place,  warm  and  damp  with  the  excluded  rain, 

6  81 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

and  odorous  with  sizzling  lard  and  steaming 
coffee  and  boiling  cabbage,  was  crowded  with 
people,  but  Joe  and  Marty  took  a  little  table  to 
themselves  in  the  darkest  corner.  They  sat 
against  the  dirty  rear  wall,  whose  white  paint 
was  finger-marked,  fly-specked,  and  food-spotted, 
and  in  which  a  shelf-aperture  furnished  the 
connection  with  the  kitchen.  To  this  hole  in 
the  wall  hurried  the  three  waitresses,  shriek- 
ing their  orders  above  the  din  of  many  voices 
and  the  clatter  and  clash  of  plates  and  uten- 
sils. 

" One  ham— and!" 

A  monstrous  greasy  cook  peered  forth,  shoving 
out  a  plate  of  fried  eggs  and  echoing  huskily: 

"Ham— and!" 

11  Corn-beef  -an '-cabbage!"  "One  harf-an'- 
harf!"  "Make  a  sunstroke  on  the  hash!"  and 
other  pleasing  chants  of  the  noon. 

' 'What  '11  yer  have?" 

A  thin  and  nervous  young  woman  swooped 
between  them  and  mopped  off  the  sloppy, 
crumby  table  with  her  apron. 

1  'What's  good?"  asked  Joe. 

The  waitress  regarded  Joe  with  half -shut  eyes. 

"  Yon  want  veal  cutlets. " 

And  she  wafted  the  information  to  the  cook. 

"Well,  Joe,"  said  the  practical  Briggs,  unable 
to  hold  in  his  excitement  any  longer,  "let's  get 
down  to  business." 

Joe  leaned  forward. 

82 


MARTY-   BRIGGS 

"I'm  thinking  of  starting  up  the  printery, 
Marty. " 

Marty  flushed,  choked,  and  could  hardly 
speak. 

"I  knew  you  would,  Joe." 

"Yes,"  Joe  went  on,  "but  I'm  not  going  to 
go  on  with  it. " 

Marty  spoke  sharply: 

"Why  not?" 

"I'll  tell  you  later,  Marty." 

' '  Not— lost  your  nerve  ?    The  fire  ?  " 

Joe  laughed  softly. 

"Other  reasons — Marty." 

"Retire?"  Marty's  appetite  was  spoiled.  He 
pushed  the  veal  cutlet  from  him.  He  was  greatly 
agitated.  "Retire — you?  I  can  see  you  doing 
nothing,  blamed  if  I  can't.  Gettin'  sporty,  Joe, 
in  your  old  age,  aren't  you?  You'll  be  wearing 
one  of  these  dress-suits  next  and  a  flasher  in  yer 
chest.  Huh!"  he  snorted,  "you'd  make  a  good 
one  on  the  shelf!" 

Joe  laughed  with  joy. 

"With  my  flunkies  and  my  handmaids.  No, 
Marty,  I'm  going  into  another  business. " 

"What  business?" 

"Editing  a  magazine." 

"And  what  do  you  know  about  editing  a 
magazine?" 

"What  do  most  of  the  editors  know?"  queried 
Joe.  "You  don't  have  to  know  anything. 
Everybody's  editing  magazines  nowadays." 

83 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"A  magazine  !"  Marty  was  disgusted.  "You're 
falling  pretty  low,  Joe.  Why  don't  you  stick  to 
an  honest  business?  Gosh!  you'd  make  a  queer 
fist  editing  a  magazine!" 

Joe  was  delighted. 

"Well,  there  are  reasons,  Marty.** 

"What  reasons?" 

So  Joe  in  a  shaking  voice  unfolded  his  philos- 
ophy, and  as  he  did  so  Marty  became  dazed  and 
aghast,  gazing  at  his  -boss  as  if  Joe  had  turned 
into  some  unthinkable  zoological  oddity.  Into 
Marty's  prim-set  life,  with  its  definite  boundaries 
and  unmysterious  exactness,  was  poured  a  vapor 
of  lunacy.  Finally  Joe  wound  up  with : 

"So  you  see  I've  got  to  do  what  little  I  can  to 
help  straighten  things.  You  see,  Marty?  Now, 
what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Give  me  your  honest 
opinion. " 

Marty  spoke  sharply  : 

"You  want  to  know  what  I  really  think?" 

"Every  word  of  it!" 

"Now  see  here,  Joe,"  Marty  burst  out,  "you 
and  I  grew  up  in  the  business  together,  and  we 
know  each  other  well  enough  to  speak  out,  even 
if  you  are  my  boss,  don't  we  ?" 

"We  do,  Marty!" 

Marty  leaned  over. 

"Joe,  I  think  you're  a  blamed  idiot!" 

Joe  laughed. 

"Well,  Marty,  if  it  weren't  for  the  blamed 
idiots — like  Columbus  and  Tom  Watts  and  the 

84 


MARTY    BRIGGS 

prophets  and  Abe  Lincoln — this  world  would  be 
in  a  pretty  mess. " 

But  Marty  refused  to  be  convinced,  even 
averring  that  the  world  is  in  a  pretty  mess,  and 
that  probably  the  aforementioned  "idiots"  had 
caused  it  to  be  so.  Then  finally  he  spoke  caress- 
ingly: 

"Ah,  Joe,  tell  me  it's  a  joke. " 

"No,"  said  Joe,  earnestly,  "it's  what  I've  got 
to  face,  Marty,  and  I  need  your  backing. " 

Marty  mused  miserably. 

"So  the  "game's  up,  and  you've  changed,  and 
we  men  can  go  to  the  dogs.  Why,  we  can't  run 
that  printery  without  you.  We'd  go  plumb  to 
hell!" 

Joe  changed  his  voice — it  became  more  com- 
manding. 

"Never  mind  now,  Marty.  I  want  your  help 
to  figure  things  out.  " 

So  Marty  got  out  his  little  pad  and  the  two 
drew  close  together. 

"I  want  to  figure  on  a  weekly  newspaper — I'm 
figuring  big  on  the  future — just  want  to  see  what 
it  will  come  to.  Say  an  edition  of  twenty  thou- 
sand copies,  an  eight-page  paper,  eight  by  twelve, 
no  illustrations." 

Marty  spoke  humbly: 

"As  you  say,  Joe.     Cheap  paper?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  your  own  printing?" 

"Yes." 

85 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

' '  Well,  you'll  need  a  good  cylinder  press  for  a 
starter." 

"How  much  help?" 

"Make-up  man — pressman — feeder — that's  on 
the  press.  Will  you  set  up  the  paper  yourself?" 

"No,  I'll  have  it  set  up  outside. " 

"Who'll  bind  it,  fold,  and  address?" 

"The  bindery — give  that  out,  too. " 

"And  who'll  distribute  ?" 

"Outside,  too." 

"The  news  company?" 

"No,  I  won't  deal  with  any  news  company. 
I  want  to  go  direct  to  the  people.  Say  I  get  a 
hundred  newsmen  to  distribute  in  their  neighbor- 
hood?" 

"But  who'll  get  the  paper  to  the  newsmen  ?" 

"Hire  a  truck  company — so  much  a  week. " 

"And  how  much  will  you  charge  for  the  paper  ?" 

"Cent  a  copy." 

"Can't  do  it,"  said  Marty. 

"Why  not?" 

Marty  did  some  figuring,  so  they  raised  the 
price  to  two  cents.  And  then  they  put  in  twenty 
minutes  and  worked  out  the  scheme.  It  summed 
up  as  follows: 

Paper  sells  at  2  cts.,  20,000    $400 

Expenses 340 

Profit $  60 

Joe  was  exultant. 

"Sixty  profit!     Well,  I'm  hanged." 
86 


MARTY    BRIGGS 

"Not  so  fast,  Joe, "  said  Marty,  drily.  "They 
say  no  one  ever  started  a  magazine  without 
getting  stuck,  and  anyway,  you  just  reckon 
there'll  be  expenses  that  will  run  you  into  debt 
right  along.  But  of  course  there'll  be  the  ads. " 

"I  don't  know  about  the  ads,"  said  Joe. 
"But  the  figures  please  me  just  the  same. " 

Marty  squirmed  in  his  chair. 

"Joe,"  he  burst  out,  "how  the  devil  is  the 
printery  going  to  run  without  you?" 

Their  eyes  met,  and  Joe  laughed. 

"Will  it  be  worth  twenty-five  thousand  dollars 
when  it's  rebuilt  and  business  booming  again?" 
he  asked,  shrewdly. 

"More  than  that!"  said  Marty  Briggs. 

"Then, "  said  Joe,  "I  want  you  to  take  it. " 

"Me?"    Marty  was  stunned. 

"You  can  do  it  easily.  I'll  take  a  mortgage 
and  you  pay  it  off  two  thousand  a  year  and  five 
per  cent,  interest.  That  will  still  leave  you  a 
tidy  profit." 

"Me?"  Then  Marty  laughed  loud.  "Listen, 
my  ears!  Did  you  hear  that?" 

"Think  it  over!"  snapped  Joe.  "Now  come 
along." 


VII 

LAST  OF  JOE  ELAINE  AND  HIS  MEN 

SO  the  printery  was  rehabilitated,  and  one  gray 
morning  Joe,  with  a  queer  tremor  at  his  heart, 
went  down  the  street  and  met  many  of  his  men 
in  the  doorway.  They  greeted  him  with  strange, 
ashamed  emotion. 

"Morning,  Mr.  Joe.  .  .  .  It's  been  a  long 
spell.  .  .  .  Good  to  see  the  old  place  again.  .  .  . 
Bad  weather  we're  having.  .  .  .  How've  you 
been?" 

The  loft  seemed  strangely  the  same,  strangely 
different — fresh  painted,  polished,  smelling  new 
and  with  changed  details.  For  a  few  moments 
Joe  felt  the  sharp  shock  of  the  fire  again,  espe- 
cially when  he  heard  the  trembling  of  the  hat 
factory  overhead  .  .  .  and  that  noon  the  bright 
faces  and  laughter  in  the  hallway!  It  seemed 
unreal;  like  ghosts  revisiting;  and  he  learned 
later  that  the  first  morning  the  hat  factory  had 
set  to  work,  some  of  the  girls  had  become  hysteri- 
cal. 

But  as  he  stood  in  his  private  office,  looking 
out  into  the  gray  loft,  and  feeling  how  weird  and 
swift  are  life's  changes,  the  men  turned  on  the 

88 


JOE    ELAINE    AND    HIS   MEN 

electrics,  and  the  floors  and  walls  began  their  old 
trembling  and  the  presses  clanked  and  thundered. 
He  could  have  wept.  To  Joe  this  moment  of 
starting  up  had  always  been  precious:  it  had 
seemed  to  bring  him  something  he  had  missed; 
something  that  fitted  like  an  old  shoe  and  was 
friendly  and  familiar.  All  at  once  he  felt  as  if 
he  could  not  leave  this  business,  could  not  leave 
these  men. 

And  yet  he  had  only  three  days  with  them  to 
wind  up  the  business  and  install  Marty  Briggs. 
And  then  there  was  a  last  supper  of  Joe  Elaine 
and  his  men.  Those  days  followed  one  another 
with  ever-deepening  gloom,  in  which  the  trem- 
bling printery  and  all  the  human  beings  that 
were  part  of  it  seemed  steeped  in  a  growing 
twilight.  Do  what  Joe  would  and  could  in  the 
matter  of  good-fellowship,  loud  laughter,  and  high 
jocularity,  the  darkness  thickened  staggeringly. 
Hardly  had  Joe  settled  the  transfer  of  the  print- 
ery to  Marty,  when  the  rumor  of  the  transaction 
swept  the  business.  At  noon  men  gathered  in 
groups  and  whispered  together  as  if  some  one 
had  died,  and  one  after  another  approached  Joe 
with  a: 

1 '  Mr;  Joe,  is  it  true  what  the  fellows  say  ?' ' 

"Yes,  Tom." 

"Going  to  leave  us,  Mr.  Joe?" 

"Going,  Tom." 

"Go*  to  go?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  to." 
89 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I'll  hate  to  go  home  and  tell  my  wife,  Mr. 
Joe.  She'll  cry  her  head  off. " 

''Oh,  come!   come!" 

"Say — we  men,  Mr.  Joe- 
But  Tom  would  say  no  more,  and  go  off  miser- 
ably; only  to  be  replaced  by  Eddie  or  Mack  or 
John,  and  then  some  such  dialogue  would  be 
repeated.  Under  the  simple  and  inadequate 
words  lurked  that  sharp  tragedy  of  life,  the 
separation  of  comrades,  that  one  event  which 
above  all  others  darkens  the  days  and  gives  the 
sense  of  old  age.  And  the  men  seemed  all  the 
closer  to  Joe  because  of  the  tragedy  of  the  fire. 
All  these  conversations  told  on  Joe.  He  went 
defiantly  about  the  shop,  but  invariably  his 
spoken  orders  were  given  in  a  humble,  almost 
affectionate  tone,  as  (with  one  arm  loosely  about 
the  man) : 

"Say,  Sam,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  use  a 
little  benzine  on  that?" 

And  Sam  would  answer  solemnly: 

"I've  always  done  as  you've  said,  Mr.  Joe — 
since  the  very  first. " 

His  men  succeeded  in  this  way  in  making  Joe 
almost  as  miserable  as  when  he  had  parted  from 
Myra;  and  indeed  a  man's  work  is  blood  of  his 
blood,  heart  of  his  heart. 

Possibly  one  thing  that  hurt  Joe  as  much  as 
anything  else  was  a  curious  change  in  Marty 
Briggs.  That  big  fellow,  from  the  moment  that 
Joe  had  handed  over  the  business,  began  to  un- 

90 


JOE    BLAINE  AND    HIS    MEN 

fold  hitherto  unguessed  bits  of  personality.  He 
ceased  to  lament  Joe's  going;  he  went  about  the 
shop  with  a  certain  jaunty  air  of  proprietorship; 
and  the  men,  for  some  unknown  reason,  began  to 
call  him  Mr.  Briggs.  He  even  grew  a  bit  cool 
toward  Joe.  Joe  watched  him  with  a  sad  sort  of 
mirth,  and  finally  called  him  into  the  office  one 
morning.  He  put  his  hands  on  the  big  man's 
shoulders  and  looked  in  his  face. 

"Marty, "  he  said,  "I  hope  you're  not  going  to 
make  an  ass  of  yourself. " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  murmured  Marty. 

Joe  brought  his  face  a  little  nearer. 

"I  want  to  know  something. " 

"What?" 

Joe  spoke  slowly: 

' '  Are  you  Marty  Briggs  now  or  are  you  Martin 
Briggsr 

Marty  tried  to  laugh ;  tried  to  look  away. 

"What's  the  difference?"  he  muttered. 

"Difference?"  Joe's  voice  sank.  "Marty,  I 
thought  you  were  a  bigger  man.  It's  only  the 
little  peanut  fellows  who  want  to  be  bossy  and 
holier-than-thou.  Don't  make  any  mistake!" 

"I  guess,"  muttered  Marty,  "I  can  steer 
things  O.K." 

"You'd  better!"  Joe  spoke  a  little  sharply. 
"Our  men  here  are  as  big  as  you  and  I,  every 
one  of  them.  My  God!  you'll  have  to  pay  the 
price  of  being  a  high  muck-a-muck,  Marty! 
So,  don't  forget  it!" 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Marty  tried  to  laugh  again. 

1  'You're  getting  different  lately,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"I?"  Joe  laughed  harshly.  "What  if  it's 
you?  But  don't  let's  quarrel.  We've  been  to- 
gether too  long.  Only,  let's  both  remember. 
That's  all,  Marty!" 

All  of  which  didn't  mend  matters.  It  was 
that  strangest  of  all  the  twists  of  human  nature — 
the  man  rising  from  the  ranks  turning  against  his 
fellows. 

On  Friday  night  Joe  climbed  the  three  flights 
of  the  stuffy  Eightieth  Street  tenement  and  had 
supper  with  the  Ranns.  That  family  of  five 
circled  him  with  such  warmth  of  love  that  the 
occasion  burst  finally  into  good  cheer.  The  two 
girls,  seated  opposite  him,  sent  him  smiling  and 
wordless  messages  of  love.  Not  a  word  was 
said  of  the  fire,  but  John  kept  serving  him  with 
large  portions  of  the  vegetables  and  the  excellent 
and  expensive  steak  which  had  been  bought  in 
his  honor;  and  John's  wife  kept  spurring  him  on. 

"I'm  sure  Mr.  Joe  could  stand  just  a  weeny 
sliver  more. " 

"Mrs.  Rann  " — Joe  put  down  knife  and  fork — 
"do  you  want  me  to  burst?" 

"A  big  man  like  you?  Give  him  the  sliver, 
John." 

"John,  spare  me!" 

"Mr.  Joe  " — John  waved  his  hand  with  an  air 
of  finality — "in  the  shop  what  you  says  goes,  but 

92 


JOE    ELAINE    AND    HIS   MEN 

in  this  here  home  I  take  my  orders  from  the  old 
lady.  See?" 

"Nellie — Agnes — "  he  appealed,  despairingly, 
to  his  little  loves,  "you  save  me!  Don't  you 
love  me  any  more?" 

This  set  Nellie  and  Agnes  giggling  with  delight. 

"Give  him  a  pound,  a  whole  pound!"  cried 
Agnes,  who  was  the  elder. 

A  nice  sliver  was  waved  dripping  on  Joe's 
plate,  which  Joe  proceeded  to  eat  desperately, 
all  in  one  mouthful.  Whereupon  the  Ranns 
were  convulsed  with  joy,  and  John  kept  "ha-ha- 
ing"  as  he  thumped  the  table,  and  went  to  such 
excesses  that  he  seemed  to  put  his  life  in  peril 
and  Mrs.  Rann  and  the  girls  had  to  rise  and 
pound  him  until  their  hands  hurt. 

"Serves  you  right,  John,"  said  Joe,  grimly. 
"Try  it  again,  and  you'll  get  a  stroke." 

"Ain't  he  the  limit?"  queried  John,  gasping. 

Then  Mrs.  Rann  went  mysteriously  to  the 
cupboard,  and  the  girls  began  to  whisper,  to- 
gether and  giggle.  And  then  Mrs.  Rann  brought 
something  covered  with  a  napkin,  and  then  the 
napkin  was  removed.  It  was  pie. 

Joe  pretended  that  he  didn't  know  the  secret, 
and  leaned  far  over  and  gazed  at  it. 

"It's— well,  what  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Rann's  voice  rang  with  exultation. 

"Your  favorite,  Mr.  Joe/' 

"Not— raisin  pie?" 

A  shout  went  up  from  all.  Then  real  moisture 
93 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

came  stealthily  to  Joe's  eyes,  and  he  looked  about 
on  those  friendly  faces,  and  murmured : 

"Thoughtful,  mightily  thoughtful!" 

There  was  a  special  bottle  of  wine — rather 
cheap,  it  is  true,  but  then  it  was  served  with 
raisin  pie  and  with  human  love,  which  made  it 
very  palatable.  Mrs.  Rann  fixed  John  with  a 
sharp  glance  through  her  glasses  and  cleared  her 
throat  several  times,  and  finally  Agnes  gave  him 
a  poke  in  the  ribs,  whispering: 

4 'Hurry  up,  dad!" 

John  blushed  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Mr.  Joe,  I  ain't  a  talker,  anyway  on  my  feet. 
But,  Mr.  Joe,  you've  been  my  boss  six  years. 
And,  Mr.  Joe — "  He  paused,  stuck,  and  gazed 
appealingly  at  Joe. 

Joe  rose  to  the  occasion. 

"So  it's,  here's  to  good  friends,  isn't  it,  John  ?" 

John  beamed. 

"That's  it — you  took  the  words  out  of  my 
mouth!  Toast!" 

So  they  drank. 

Then  Joe  rose,  and  spoke  musingly,  tenderly: 

"There's  a  trifle  I  want  to  say  to  you  to-night 
— to  every  one  of  you.  I  can't  do  without  you. 
Now  it  happens  that  I'm  going  to  put  a  press  in 
my  new  business  and  I'm  looking  for  a  first-class 
crackerjack  of  a  pressman.  Do  you  happen  to 
know  any  one  in  this  neighborhood  who  could 
take  the  job?" 

He  sat  down.  There  was  profound  silence. 
94 


JOE    BLAINE    AND    HIS   MEN 

And  then  Mrs.  Rann  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
sobbed.  John  reached  over  and  took  Joe's  hand, 
and  his  voice  was  husky  with  tears. 

''Mr.  Joe!  Mr.  Joe!  Ah,  say,  you  make  me 
feel  foolish!" 

Joe  stayed  with  them  late  that  night,  and 
when  he  left,  the  kisses  of  the  two  girls  moist  on 
his  cheeks,  he  had  no  doubt  of  his  life-work. 
But  next  day,  Saturday — the  last  day — was 
downright  black.  Things  went  wrong,  and  the 
men  steered  clear  of  Joe. 

" Don't  bother  him,"  they  said,  meaning  to 
spare  him,  and  thereby  increasing  his  pain. 
Men  spoke  in  hushed  tones,  as  soldiers  might  on 
the  eve  of  a  fatal  battle,  and  even  Marty  Briggs 
dropped  his  new  mannerisms  and  was  subdued 
and  simple. 

Then  Joe  went  off  into  a  state  of  mind  which 
might  be  described  as  the  "hazes" — a  thing  he 
did  now  and  then.  At  such  times  the  word  went 
round : 

"The  old  man's  got  'em  again!" 

And  he  was  left  well  alone,  for  the  good  reason 
that  he  was  unapproachable.  He  seemed  not  to 
listen  to  spoken  words,  nor  to  pay  any  attention 
to  the  world  about  him.  The  men,  however, 
appreciated  these  spells,  for,  as  a  rule,  something 
came  of  them — they  bore  good  practical  fruit, 
the  sure  test  of  all  sanity. 

The  day  finally  wore  away,  to  every  one's 
relief.  Joe  took  a  last  look  around  at  all  the 

95 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

familiar  scene,  shut  his  desk,,  handed  over  the 
keys  to  Marty  (who  could  not  speak  because  he 
was  half  -  choked) ,  s%ng  out,  "See  you  later, 
boys!"  heard  for  the  last  time  the  sharp  ring  of  the 
door-bell  and  the  slam  of  the  door,  and  hurried 
away.  Then  at  last  night  came,  and  with  night 
the  last  supper  (as  already  announced)  of  Joe 
Blaine  and  His  Men. 

By  Monday  there  would  be  painted  an  addition 
on  that  door,  namely: 

MARTIN  BRIGGS 

SUCCESSOR   TO 

The  supper  was  held  in  the  large  hall,  up-stairs, 
of  Pfaff's,  on  East  Eighty-sixth  Street.  The 
large  table  was  a  dream  of  green  and  white,  of 
silver  and  glass,  and  the  men  hung  about  awk- 
wardly silent  in  their  Sunday  best.  Then  Joe 
cried : 

4 'Start  the  presses!" 

There  came  a  good  laugh  then  to  break  the  icy 
air,  and  they  sat  down  and  were  served  by  flying 
waiters,  who  in  this  instance  had  the  odd  dis- 
tinction of  appearing  to  be  the  "upper  classes" 
serving  the  "lower" — a  distinction,  up  to  date, 
not  over-eagerly  coveted  by  society.  For  the 
waiters  wore  the  conventional  dress  of  "gentle- 
men" and  the  diners  were  in  plain  and  common 
clothes. 

At  first  the  diners  were  in  a  bit  of  a  funk,  but 
96 


JOE    ELAINE    AND    HIS   MEN 

Pfaff's  excellent  meats  and  cool,  sparkling  wines 
soon  set  free  in  each  a  scintillant  human  spirit, 
and  the  banquet  took  on  almost  an  air  of  gaiety. 

Finally  there  came  the  coffee  and  the  ice- 
cream in  forms,  and  Martin  Briggs  rose.  There 
was  a  stamping  of  feet,  a  clanking  of  knives  on 
glasses,  a  cry  of  '  *  Hear !  Hear !" 

Martin  Briggs  knew  it  by  heart  and  launched 
it  with  the  aid  of  two  swallows  of  water.  His 
voice  boomed  big. 

" Fellow- workers,  friends,  and  the  Old  Man!" 

This  produced  tumults  of  applause. 

"We  are  met  to-night  on  a  solemn  occasion. 
Ties  are  to  be  severed,  friends  parted.  Such  is 
life.  Mr.  Blaine — ' '  (Cries  from  the  far  end  of  the 
table,  "Say,  Joe!  say,  Joe!")  "Mr.  Joe  has  been 
our  friend,  through  all  these  long  years.  He  has 
been  our  friend,  our  boss,  our  co-worker.  Never 
did  he  spare  himself;  often  he  spared  us.  He  had 
created  an  important  business,  a  profitable  busi- 
ness, a  business  which  has  brought  a  good  living 
to  every  one  of  us.  It  is  not  for  us  to  talk  of  the 
catastrophe — this  is  not  the  occasion  for  that. 
Enough  to  say  that  to-night  Mr.  Joe  leaves  that 
business.  Others  must  carry  it  on.  My  senti- 
ment is  that  these  others  must  continue  in  the 
same  spirit  of  Mr.  Joe.  That's  my  sentiment." 
(Roars  of  applause,  stamping  of  feet,  but  one 
voice  heard  in  talk  with  a  neighbor,  "Say,  I 
guess  his  wife  wrote  that,  Bill. ")  "So  I  propose 
a  toast.  To  Mr.  Joe,  now  and  forever!" 
7  97 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

They  rose,  they  clanked  glasses,  they  drank. 
Then  they  sat  down  and  felt  that  something  was 
wrong.  Marty  surely  had  missed  fire. 

Whereupon  John  Rann,  blushing,  rose  to  his 
feet,  and  began  to  stammer: 

"Say,  fellers,  do  you  mind  if  I  put  in  a  word  ?" 
(Cries:  "Not  a  bit!"  "  Soak  it  him,  Johnny.") 
"Well,  I  want  to  say,"  his  voice  rose,  "Joe 
Elaine  is  it."  (Applause,  laughter,  stamping.) 
"He's  jest  one  of  us."  (Cries:  "You  bet!" 
"You've  hit  it,  Johnny!"  "Give  us  more!") 
"He's  a  friend."  (Cries:  "That's  the  dope!") 
"He  never  did  a  mean  thing  in  his  life."  (One 
loud  cry :  "  Couldn't  if  he  wanted  to !")  "  Say, ' ' 
(Cries:  "Go  ahead!"  "Nobody  '11  stop  yer!" 
1 '  Give  him  hell !"  Laughter.)  '  *  We  fellers  never 
appreciated  this  here  Joe  Elaine,  did  we  ?"  (Cries : 
"Gosh  no!")  "But  we  do  now!"  (Uproarious 
and  prolonged  applause.)  "Say,  fellers,  he's 
been  like  a  regular  father  to  us  kids."  (A 
strange  silence.)  "He's  been —  Oh,  hell!" 
(Speaker  wipes  his  eyes  with  a  red  handkerchief. 
Strange  silence  prolonged.  Then  one  voice: 
"Tell  him  to  his  face,  John.  'Bout  time  he 
knew,")  "Joe  Elaine"  (speaker  faces  Mr. 
Elaine,  and  tries  not  to  choke),  "if  any  one  tries 
to  say  that  you  had  anything  to  do  with  the  fire — 
he's  a  damned  liar!" 

A  thrill  charged  the  men;  they  became  pale; 
they  gazed  on  Joe,  who  looked  as  white  as  linen ; 
and  suddenly  they  burst  forth  in  a  wildness,  a 

98 


JOE    BLAINE    AND    HIS    MEN 

shouting,  a  stamping,  a  cry  of:  "Mr.  Joe!  Mr. 
Joe!  Mr.  Joe!" 

Joe  arose;  he  leaned  a  little  forward;  he 
trembled  visibly,  his  rising  hand  shaking  so  that 
he  dropped  it.  Then  at  last  he  spoke: 

"Yes — John  is  my  friend.  And  you — are  my 
friends.  Yes.  But — you're  wrong.  I  was  to 
blame."  He  paused.  "I  was  to  blame.  Here, 
to-night,  I  want  to  say  this:  Those  girls,  those 
comrades  of  ours — all  that  went  to  waste  with 
them — well,"  his  voice  broke,  "I'm  going  to  try 
to  make  good  for  them.  ..." 

For  a  moment  he  stood  there,  his  face  working 
strangely  as  if  he  were  going  to  break  down,  and 
the  men  looked  away  from  him.  Then  he  went 
on  in  a  voice  warmly  human  and  tender : 

"You  and  I,  boys,  we  grew  up  together.  I 
know  your  wives  and  children.  You've  given  me 
happy  hours.  I've  made  you  stand  for  a  lot — 
your  old  man  was  considerable  boy — had  his  bad 
habits,  his  queer  notions.  Once  in  awhile  went 
crazy.  But  we  managed  along,  quarreling  just 
enough  to  hit  it  off  together.  Remember  how  I 
fired  Tommy  three  times  in  one  week  ?  Couldn't 
get  rid  of  him.  Oh,  Tommy,  what '  pi '  you  made 
of  things!  Great  times  we've  had,  great  times. 
It  hurts  me  raw."  He  paused,  looking  round  at 
them.  They  were  glancing  at  him  furtively  with 
shining  eyes.  "Hurts  me  raw  to  think  those 
times  are  over — for  me.  But  the  dead  have 
called  me.  I  go  out  into  another  world.  I  go 

99 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

out  into  a  great  fight.  I  may  fail — quite  likely  I 
will.  But  I  shall  be  backed.  Your  love  goes 
with  me,  and  I've  got  a  big  job  ahead."  Again 
he  paused,  overcome.  Then  he  tried  to  smile, 
tried  to  smooth  out  the  tragic  with  a  forced 
jocularity.  "Now,  boys,  behave.  Mind  you 
don't  work  too  much.  And  don't  all  forget  the 
old  man.  And — but  that's  enough,  I  guess." 

The  silence  was  terrible.  Some  of  those  big 
men  were  crying  softly  like  stricken  children.  It 
was  the  last  requiem  over  the  dead,  the  last 
flare-up  of  the  tragic  fire.  They  crowded  round 
Joe.  He  was  blind  himself  with  tears,  though  he 
felt  a  strange  quiet  in  his  heart. 

And  then  he  was  out  in  the  starry  autumn 
night,  walking  home,  murmuring: 

"It's  all  over.     That's  out  of  my  life. " 

And  he  felt  as  if  something  had  died  within 
him. 


VIII 

THE  WIND  IN  THE  OAKS 

EARLY  Monday  evening  there  came  a  note 
from  Myra: 

I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  am  leaving  for  the 
country — to-morrow — to  get  a  rest. 

MYRA. 

Joe  at  once  put  on  his  hat  and  coat  and  went 
out.  The  last  meeting  with  his  men  had  given 
him  a  new  strength,  a  heightened  manhood- 
Like  a  man  doomed  to  death,  he  felt  beyond 
despair  now.  He  only  knew  he  must  go  to 
Myra  and  set  straight  their  relationship  as  a 
final  step  before  he  plunged  into  the  great  battle. 
No  more  weakness!  No  more  quarreling!  But 
clear  words  and  definite  understanding ! 

He  went  up  the  stoop  and  rang  the  bell.  A 
servant  opened  the  door,  showed  him  into  the 
dimly  lighted  parlor,  and  went  up  the  stairs 
with  his  name.  He  heard  her  footsteps,  light, 
hesitant.  She  appeared  before  him,  pale  and 
sick  and  desperate. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  in  a  tortured 
voice. 

101 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

He  arose  and  came  close  to  her.  He  spoke 
authoritatively : 

"Myra,  get  on  your  things.  We  must  take  a 
walk." 

Her  shifting  eyes  glanced  up,  gave  him  their 
full  luminous  gray  and  all  the  trouble  of  her 
heart. 

"Myra, "  his  voice  deepened,  and  struck 
through  her,  "you  must  go  with  me  to-night. 
It's  our  last  chance. " 

She  turned  and  was  gone.  He  heard  her  light 
footsteps  ascending;  he  waited,  wondering, 
hoping;  and  then  she  came  down  again,  showing 
her  head  at  the  door.  She  had  on  the  little 
rounded  felt  hat,  and  she  carried  her  muff. 

They  went  out  together,  saying  nothing, 
stepping  near  one  another  under  the  lamps  and 
over  the  avenues,  and  into  the  Park.  It  was  a 
strange,  windy  night,  touched  with  the  first 
bleakness  of  winter,  tinged  with  the  moaning 
melancholy  of  the  tossing  oak-trees,  and  with 
streaks  of  faint  reflected  city  lights  in  the  far 
heavens. 

It  was  their  last  night  together.  Both  knew  it. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  The  great  issues  of 
life  were  sweeping  them  away  into  black  gulfs  of 
the  future,  where  there  might  never  be  meeting 
again,  never  hand-touch  nor  sound  of  each 
other's  voice.  And  strangely  life  deepened  in 
their  hearts,  and  they  were  swept  by  the  mystery 
of  being  alive  .  .  .  alive  in  the  star-streaked 

102 


THE    WIND    IN    THE   OAKS 

darkness  of  space,  alive  with  so  many  other  brief 
creatures  that  brightened  for  a  moment  in  the 
gloom  and  then  sank  away  into  the  stormy  heart 
of  nature.  And  Love  contended  with  Death, 
and  the  little  labors  of  man  helped  Death  to 
crush  Love ;  and  so  that  moment  of  existence, 
that  brief  span,  became  a  mere  brute  struggle, 
a  clash,  a  fight,  a  thing  sordid  and  worse  than  death. 

Out  of  the  mystery,  each,  from  some  unimagin- 
able distance,  had  come  forth  and  met  here  on 
the  earth,  met  for  a  wild  moment,  a  moment 
that  gave  them  lightning-lit  glimpses  of  that 
mystery,  only  to  part  from  each  other  now,  each 
to  return  into  the  darkness. 

They  felt  in  unison  more  than  they  could  ever 
say.  And  it  was  the  last  night  together. 

They  sat  down  on  a  bench,  under  those  mourn- 
ful boughs,  under  the  lamentations  of  the  oaks. 

"Myra,"  said  Joe. 

She  murmured,  "Yes." 

His  voice  was  charged  with  some  of  the  strange- 
ness of  the  night,  some  significance  of  the  mys- 
tery of  life  and  death. 

"You  read  my  letter.  .  .  ." 

"Yes." 

"And  you  understand  .  .  .  at  last?" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  I  can't  tell." 

He  paused;   he  leaned  nearer. 

"Why  are  you  going  away?" 

"I've  been  sick, "  she  whispered.  "The  doctor 
told  me  to  go." 

103 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"For  long?" 

"For  a  rest." 

"And  you  go  to-morrow?" 

"I  go  to-morrow." 

4 '  Without  forgiving  me  T '     He  leaned  very  near. 

There  was  a  palpitating  silence,  a  silence  that 
searched  their  souls,  and  sharply  then  Myra 
cried  out: 

"Oh,  Joe!  Joe!    This  is  killing  me!" 

"Myra!"  he  cried. 

He  drew  her  close,  very  close,  stroking  -her 
cheek,  and  the  tears  ran  over  his  ringers. 

"Oh,  don't  you  see,"  he  went  on,  brokenly, 
"I  can't  ask  you  to  come  with  me?  And  yet  I 
must  go?" 

' '  I  don't  know,"  she  sobbed.  '  *  I  must  go  away 
and  rest  .  .  .  and  think  .  .  .  and  try  to  under- 
stand. ..." 

"And  may  I  write  to  you?  .  .  ." 

"Yes, "  she  murmured. 

"And  I  am  forgiven?" 

"Forgive  me!"  she  sobbed. 

They  could  say  no  more,  but  sat  in  the  wild 
darkness,  clasping  each  other  as  if  they  could  not 
let  one  another  go.  ...  How  could  they  send 
each  other  forth  to  go  in  loneliness  and  home- 
lessness  to  the  ends  of  the  earth?  The  hours 
passed  as  they  talked  brokenly  together,  words 
of  remorse,  of  love,  of  forgiveness. 

And  then  finally  they  arose — it  was  very  late — 
and  Myra  whispered,  clinging  to  him : 

104 


THE    WIND    IN    THE    OAKS 


"We  must  say  good-by  here!" 

"Good-by!"  he  cried  .  .  .  and  they  kissed. 

"Joe,"  she  exclaimed,  "take  care  of  yourself! 
Do  just  that  for  me !" 

"I  will,"  he  said  huskily,  "but  you  must  do 
the  same  for  me.  Promise. " 

"I  promise!" 

"Oh,  Joe!"  she  cried  out,  "what  is  life  doing 
with  us?" 

And  they  went  back,  confused  and  strange, 
through  the  lighted  streets.  They  stood  before 
her  house. 

"Till  you  come  back!"  he  whispered. 

She  flashed  about  then,  a  look  of  a  new  wonder 
in  her  eyes. 

"If  only  I  thought  you  were  right  in  your 
work!"  she  cried. 

"You  will!  You  will,  Myra!  And  in  that 
hope,  we  will  go  on !" 

She  was  gone;  the  door  shut  him  out  of  her 
life.  And  all  alone,  strong,  bitter,  staring  ahead, 
Joe  stepped  off  to  begin  the  new  life  ...  to 
plunge  into  the  battle. 


PART  II 
THE    TEST 


BEGINNINGS 

IT  was  in  that  red  gash  of  crosstown  brick — 
West  Tenth  Street— that  the  new  life  be- 
gan. The  neighborhood  was  quaint  and  poor,  a 
part  of  that  old  Greenwich  Village  which  at  one 
time  was  a  center  of  quiet  and  chaste  respect- 
ability, with  its  winding  streets,  its  old-fashioned 
low  brick  houses,  its  trees,  its  general  air  of  de- 
tachment and  hushed  life.  Now  it  was  a  scene 
of  slovenliness  and  dust,  of  miserable  lives  hud- 
dled thickly  in  inadequate  houses,  of  cheap 
roomers  and  boarders,  of  squalid  poverty — a 
mix  of  many  nations  well-sprinkled  with  saloons. 

But  the  house  was  quite  charming — three 
stories,  red  brick,  with  a  stoop  of  some  ten  steps, 
and  long  French  windows  on  the  first  floor. 
Behind  those  French  windows  was  a  four-room 
flat ;  beneath  them,  in  the  basement,  a  room  with 
iron-grated  windows.  Into  that  flat  Joe  and  his 
mother  moved. 

The  invasion  was  unostentatious.  No  one 
could  have  dreamed  that  the  tall,  homely  man, 
dashing  in  and  out  in  his  shirt-sleeves  between 
the  rooms  and  the  moving- van  drawn  up  at  the 

109 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

curb,  had  come  down  with  the  deliberate  purpose 
of  making  a  neighborhood  out  of  a  chaos,.,  of 
organizing  that  jumble  of  scattered  polyglot 
lives.  ...  In  the  faded  sunshine  of  the  un- 
usually warm  winter  afternoon,  with  its  vistas  of 
gold-dusty  air,  and  its  noise  of  playing  children 
and  on-surging  trolleys  and  trucks  and  all  the 
minute  life  of  the  saloons  and  the  stores — women 
hanging  out  of  windows  to  get  the  recreation  of 
watching  the  confused  drama  of  the  streets, 
neighbors  meeting  in  doorways,  young  men 
laughing  and  chatting  in  clusters  about  lamp- 
posts— Joe  toiled  valiantly  and  happily.  He 
would  rapidly  glance  at  the  thickly  peopled 
street  and  wonder,  with  a  thrill,  how  soon  he 
would  include  these  lives  in  his  own,  how  soon  he 
would  grip  and  rouse  and  awaken  the  careless 
multitude.  .  .  . 

All  was  strange,  all  was  new.  Everything 
that  was  deep  in  his  life — all  the  roots  he  had  put 
down  through  boyhood,  youth,  and  manhood 
into  the  familiar  life  of  Yorkville — was  torn  up 
and  transplanted  to  this  fresh  and  unfriendly 
soil.  ...  He  felt  as  if  he  were  in  an  alien  land, 
under  new  skies,  in  a  new  clime,  and  there  was  all 
the  romance  of  the  mysterious  and  all  the  fear  of 
the  untried.  Beginnings  always  have  the  double 
quality  of  magic  and  timidity — the  dreaded, 
delicious  first  plunge  into  cold  water,  the  adven- 
turous striking  out  into  unknown  perils.  .  .  . 
Did  it  not  at  moments  seem  like  madness  to 

no 


BEGINNINGS 

dare  single-handed  into  this  vast  and  careless 
population  ?  Was  he  not  merely  a  modern  Don 
Quixote  tilting  at  windmills  ?  Well,  so  be  it,  he 
thought ;  the  goal  might  be  unreachable,  but  the 
quest  was  life  itself. 

He  had  an  inkling  of  the  monstrous  size  of 
New  York.  All  his  days  he  had  lived  within  a 
half-hour's  ride  of  Greenwich  Village,  and  yet  it 
was  a  new  world  to  him.  So  the  whole  city  was 
but  a  conglomeration  of  nests  of  worlds,  woven 
together  by  a  few  needs  and  the  day's  work, 
worlds  as  yet  undiscovered  in  every  direction, 
huge  tracts  of  peoples  of  all  races  leading  strange 
and  unassimilated  lives.  He  felt  lost  in  the 
crowded  immensity,  a  helpless,  obscure  unit  in 
the  whirl  of  life. 

He  had  fallen  in  love  with  Greenwich  Village 
from  the  first  day  he  had  explored  it  for  a  prom- 
ising dwelling-place.  Here,  he  knew,  lived  Sally 
Heffer,  and  here  doubtless  he  would  meet  her 
and  she  would  help  shape  his  fight,  perhaps  be 
the  woman  to  gird  on  his  armor,  put  sword  in  his 
hand,  and  send  him  forth.  For  he  needed  her, 
needed  her  as  a  child  needs  a  teacher,  as  a  recruit 
needs  a  disciplined  veteran.  It  was  she  who  had 
first  revealed  the  actual  world  to  him ;  it  was  she 
who  had  first  divined  his  power  and  his  purpose ; 
it  was  she  who  had  released  him  from  guilt  by 
showing  him  a  means  of  expiation. 

And  yet,  withal,  he  feared  to  meet  her.  There 
had  been  something  terrible  about  her  that  after- 

iii 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

noon  at  Carnegie  Hall,  and  something  that  awed 
him  that  evening  at  the  Woman's  League.  Until 
she  had  broken  down  and  wept,  she  had  hardly 
seemed  a  woman — rather  a  voice  crying  in  the 
wilderness,  a  female  Isaiah,  the  toilers  become 
articulate.  And  he  could  not  think  of  her  as  a 
simple,  vivacious  young  woman.  How  would 
she  greet  him?  Would  her  eyes  remember  his 
part  in  the  fire  ? 

At  least,  so  he  told  himself,  he  would  not  seek 
her  out  (he  had  her  address  from  Fannie  Lemick) 
until  he  had  something  to  show  for  his  new  life — 
until,  possibly,  he  had  a  copy  of  that  magazine 
which  was  still  a  hypothesis  and  a  chimera. 
Then  he  would  nerve  himself  and  go  to  her  and 
she  should  judge  him  as  she  pleased. 

That  first  supper  with  his  mother  had  a  sweet- 
ness new  to  their  lives.  He  ran  out  to  the  butch- 
er, the  grocer,  and  the  delicatessen  man,  and 
came  home  laden  with  packages.  The  stove  in 
the  rear  kitchen  was  set  alight;  the  wooden 
table  in  the  center  was  spread  with  cloth  and 
cutlery;  and  they  sat  down  opposite  each  other, 
utterly  alone  ...  no  boarding  -  house  flutter 
and  gossip  and  noise,  no  unpleasant  jarring 
personalities,  no  wholesale  cookery.  All  was 
quiet  and  peace  —  a  brooding,  tinkling  silence. 
They  both  smiled  and  smiled,  their  eyes  moist, 
and  the  food  tasted  so  good.  Blessed  bread  that 
they  broke  together,  the  cup  that  they  shared 
between  them!  The  moment  became  sacred, 

112 


BEGINNINGS 

human,  stirred  by  all  the  old,  old  miraculousness 
of  home,  that  deepest  need  of  humanity,  that  rich 
relationship  that  cuts  so  much  deeper  than  the 
light  touch-and-go  of  the  world. 

Joe  spoke  awkwardly. 

"So  we're  here,  mother  .  .  .  and  it's  ripping, 
isn't  it?" 

She  could  hardly  speak,  but  her  eyes  seemed 
to  sparkle  with  a  second  youth. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "it's  the  first  time 
we've  had  anything  like  this  since  you  were  a 
boy." 

They  both  thought  of  his  father,  and  the 
vanished  days  of  the  shanty  on  the  hillside,  and 
his  mother  thought: 

"People  must  live  out  their  own  lives  in  their 
own  homes." 

There  was  something  that  fed  the  roots  of  her 
woman-nature  to  have  this  place  apart,  this 
quiet  shelter  where  she  ruled.  It  would  be  a 
joy  to  go  marketing,  it  would  be  a  delight  to  cook, 
and  it  was  charming  to  live  so  intimately  with 
her  son.  They  were  a  family  again. 

After  supper  they  washed  the  dishes  together, 
laughing  and  chatting.  There  were  a  hundred 
pleasing  details  to  consider — where  to  place  furni- 
ture, what  to  buy,  whether  to  have  a  servant  or 
not  (Joe  insisted  on  one) ,  and  all  the  incidents  of 
the  day  to  go  over. 

And  then  after  the  dish-washing  they  stopped 
work,  and  sat  down  in  the  front  office  amid  the 
8 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

packing-cases  and  the  trunks  and  the  litter  and 
debris.  The  gas  was  lighted  above  them,  and  the 
old-fashioned  stove  which  stood  in  the  center 
and  sprouted  up  a  pipe  nearly  to  the  ceiling  and 
then  at  right  angles  into  the  wall  was  made  red- 
hot  with  wood  and  coal.  Joe  smoked  and  his 
mother  sewed,  and  a  hush  seemed  to  fall  on  the 
city,  broken  only  by  the  echo  of  passing  foot- 
steps and  the  mellowed  thunder  of  the  inter- 
mittent trolley-cars. 

"And  they  call  this  a  slum,"  muttered  Joe. 

In  fact,  save  possibly  for  less  clear  air  and  in 
the  summer  a  noise  of  neighbors,  they  might 
have  been  living  in  New  York's  finest  neighbor- 
hood— almost  a  disappointment  to  two  people 
prepared  to  plunge  into  dirt,  danger,  and  dis- 
ease. .  .  .  Later  Joe  learned  that  some  of  the 
city's  magazine  writers  had  settled  in  the  district 
on  purpose,  not  because  they  were  meeting  a 
crisis,  but  because  they  liked  it,  liked  its  quaint 
old  flavor,  its  colorful  life,  its  alien  charm,  and 
not  least,  its  cheaper  rents. 

But  this  evening  all  was  unknown  save  the 
joy  and  peace  of  a  real  home.  They  went  to  bed 
early,  Joe  in  the  room  next  the  office,  his  mother 
in  the  adjoining  room  next  the  kitchen,  but 
neither  slept  for  a  long  time.  They  lay  awake 
tingling  with  a  strange  happiness,  a  fine  freedom, 
a  freshness  of  re-created  life.  Only  to  the  pioneer 
comes  this  thrill  of  a  new-made  Eden,  only  to 
those  who  tear  themselves  from  the  easy  ruts  and 

114 


BEGINNINGS 

cut  hazardous  clearings  in  the  un ventured  wilder- 
ness. It  is  like  being  made  over,  like  coming 
with  fresh  heart  and  eyes  upon  the  glories 
of  the  earth ;  it  is  the  only  youth  of  the 
world. 

The  night  grew  late  and  marvelously  hushed, 
a  silence  almost  oppressive,  where  every  noise 
seemed  like  an  invader,  and  Joe,  lying  there 
keenly  awake,  seemed  to  feel  the  throb  of  the 
world,  the  pauseless  pulsations  of  that  life  that 
beats  in  every  brain  and  every  heart  of  the  earth ; 
that  life  that,  more  intense  than  human  love  and 
thought,  burns  in  the  suns  that  swing  about 
heaven  rolling  the  globe  of  earth,  among  them ; 
that  life  that  enfolds  with  tremendous  purpose 
the  little  human  creature  in  the  vastness,  that 
somehow  expresses  itself  and  heightens  and 
changes  itself  in  human  lives  and  all  the  dreams 
and  doings  of  men.  Joe  felt  that  life,  thrilling  to 
it,  opening  his  heart  to  it,  letting  it  surcharge 
and  overflow  his  being  with  strength  and  joy. 
And  he  knew  then  that  he  lay  as  in  a  warm  nest 
of  the  toilers  and  the  poor,  that  crowded  all 
about  him  in  every  direction  were  sleeping  men 
and  women  and  little  children,  all  recently  born, 
all  soon  to  die,  he  himself  shortly  to  be  stricken 
out  of  these  scenes  and  these  sensations.  It  was 
all  mystery  unplumbable,  unbelievable  .  .  .  that 
this  breath  was  not  to  go  on  forever,  that  this 
brain  was  to  be  stopped  off,  this  heart  cease  like  a 
run-down  clock,  this  exultation  and  sorrow  to 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

leave  like  a  mist,  scattered  in  that  life  that  bore 
it.  ...  That  he,  Joe  Elaine,  was  to  die! 

Surely  life  was  marvelous  and  sacred;  it  was 
not  to  be  always  a  selfish  scramble,  a  money  rush, 
a  confusion  and  jumble,  but  rather  something  of 
harmony  and  mighty  labors  and  mingled  joys. 
He  felt  great  strength;  he  felt  equal  to  his  pur- 
poses ;  he  was  sure  he  could  help  in  the  advancing 
processes.  .  .  .  Even  as  he  was  part  of  the 
divine  mystery,  so  he  could  wield  that  divine- 
ness  in  him  to  lift  life  to  new  levels,  while  the 
breath  was  in  his  body,  while  the  glow  was  in 
his  brain. 

And  he  thought  of  Myra,  his  mate  in  the  mys- 
tery, and  in  the  night  he  yearned  for  her,  hun- 
gered through  all  his  being.  She  had  written 
him  a  note;  it  came  to  him  from  the  mountains. 
It  ran : 

DEAR  JOE, — You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I  am  get- 
ting back  to  myself.  The  peace  and  stillness  of  the 
white  winter  over  the  hills  is  healing  me.  It  seems 
good  merely  to  exist,  to  sleep  and  eat  and  exercise  and 
read.  I  can't  think  now  how  I  behaved  so  unaccount- 
ably those  last  few  weeks,  and  I  wonder  if  you  will 
ever  understand.  I  have  been  reading  over  and  over 
again  your  long  letter,  trying  hard  to  puzzle  out  its 
meanings,  but  I  fear  I  am  very  ignorant.  I  know  noth- 
ing of  the  crisis  you  speak  of.  I  know  that  "  ye  have 
the  poor  always  with  you,"  I  know  that  there  is  much 
suffering  in  the  world — I  have  suffered  myself — but  I 
cannot  see  that  living  among  the  poor  is  going  to  help 
vitally.  Should  we  not  all  live  on  the  highest  level 
possible?  Level  up  instead  of  leveling  down.  Igno- 

116 


BEGINNINGS 

ranee,  dirt,  and  sickness  do  not  attract  me  ...  and 
now  here  among  the  hills  the  terrible  city  seems  like 
a  fading  nightmare.  It  would  be  better  if  people  lived 
in  the  country.  I  feel  that  the  city  is  a  mistake.  But 
of  one  thing  I  am  sure.  I  understand  that  you  cannot 
help  doing  what  you  are  doing,  and  I  know  that  it  would 
have  been  a  wrong  if  I  had  interfered  with  your  life. 
I  would  have  been  a  drag  on  you  and  defeated  your 
purposes,  and  in  the  end  we  would  both  have  been  very 
unhappy.  It  seems  to  me  most  marriages  are.  Write 
me  what  you  are  doing,  where  you  are  living,  and  how 
you  are.  Yours, 

MYRA. 

He  had  smiled  over  some  of  the  phrases  in  this 
letter,  particularly,  "I  feel  that  the  city  is  a 
mistake."  Would  Myra  ever  know  that  her 
very  personality  and  all  of  her  life  were  inter- 
woven inextricably  with  the  industrial  city — that 
the  clothes  she  wore,  the  food  she  ate,  the  books 
she  studied,  the  letter  she  wrote  him,  even  down 
to  ink,  pen,  and  paper,  the  education  and  ad- 
vantages she  enjoyed,  were  all  wrought  in  the 
mills,  the  mines,  the  offices,  and  by  the  inter- 
change and  inweaving  and  mighty  labors  of  in- 
dustrialism? The  city  teacher  is  paid  by  taxes 
levied  on  the  commerce  and  labors  of  men,  and 
the  very  farmer  cannot  heighten  his  life  without 
exchange  with  the  city. 

And  so  her  letter  made  him  smile.  Yet  at  the 
same  time  it  stirred  him  mightily.  All  through 
it  he  could  read  renunciation;  she  was  giving 
him  up;  she  was  loosening  her  hold  over  him; 

117 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

she  was  nobly  sacrificing  her  love  to  his  life-work. 
And  she  announced  herself  as  teachable  and  re- 
ceptive. She  could  not  yet  understand,  but 
understanding  might  come  in  time. 

So  in  the  night  he  tried  to  send  his  thought 
over  the  hills,  flash  his  spirit  into  hers,  in  the 
great  hope  that  she  would  thrill  with  a  new  com- 
prehension, a  new  awakening.  ...  In  a  world 
so  mysterious,  in  an  existence  so  strange,  so 
impossible,  so  unbelievable,  might  such  a  miracle 
be  stranger  than  the  breath  he  breathed  and  the 
passions  he  felt? 

And  so  in  that  hope,  that  great  wild  hope,  he 
fell  asleep  in  the  uneventful  beginnings  of  the 
battle.  And  all  through  those  unconscious  hours 
forces  were  shaping  about  him  and  within  him 
to  bear  his  life  through  strange  ways  and  among 
strange  people.  His  theories,  so  easy  as  he 
drank  them  out  of  books,  were  to  be  tested  in  the 
living  world  of  men  and  women,  in  that  reality 
that  hits  back  when  we  strike  it,  and  that  batters 
us  about  like  driftwood  in  the  whirlpool. 


II 

THE   NINE-TENTHS 

OTANDING  on  Washington  Heights— that 
O  hump  on  northwestern  Manhattan  Island 
—gazing,  say,  from  a  window  of  the  City  College 
whose  gray  and  quaint  cluster  fronts  the  morn 
as  on  a  cliff  above  the  city — one  sees,  at  seven  of 
a  sharp  morning,  a  low-hung  sun  in  the  eastern 
skies,  a  vast  circle  and  lift  of  mild  blue  heavens, 
and  at  one's  feet,  down  below,  the  whole  sweep 
of  New  York  from  the  wooded  ridges  of  the 
Bronx  to  the  Fifty-ninth  Street  bridge  and  the 
golden  tip  of  the  Metropolitan  Tower.  It  is  a 
flood  of  roofs  sweeping  south  to  that  golden, 
flashing  minaret,  a  flood  bearing  innumerable 
high  mill  chimneys,  church  steeples,  school  spires, 
and  the  skeleton  frames  of  gas-works.  Far  in  the 
east  the  Harlem  River  lies  like  a  sheet  of  dazzling 
silver,  dotted  with  boats;  every  skylight,  every 
point  of  glass  or  metal  on  the  roofs,  'flashes  in  the 
sun,  and,  gazing  down  from  that  corner  in  the 
sky,  one  sees  the  visible  morning  hymn  of  the 
city — a  drift  from  thousands  of  house  chimneys 
of  delicate  unraveling  skeins  of  white-blue  smoke 
lifting  from  those  human  dwellings  like  aerial 

119 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

spirits.  It  is  the  song  of  humanity  rising,  the 
song  of  the  ritual  of  breaking  bread  together,  of 
preparation  for  the  day  of  toil,  the  song  of  the 
mothers  sending  the  men  to  work,  the  song  of 
the  mothers  kissing  and  packing  to  school  the 
rosy,  laughing  children. 

It  might  be  hard  to  imagine  that  far  to  the 
south  in  that  moving  human  ocean,  a  certain 
Joe  Elaine,  swallowed  in  the  sea,  was  yet  as  real 
a  fact  as  the  city  contained — that  to  himself  he 
was  far  from  being  swallowed,  that  he  was,  in 
fact,  so  real  to  himself  that  the  rest  of  the  city 
was  rather  shadowy  and  unreal,  and  that  he 
was  immensely  concerned  in  a  thousand-flashing 
torrent  of  thoughts,  in  a  mix-up  of  appetite  and 
desires,  and  in  the  condition  and  apparel  of  his 
body.  That  as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  for  instance, 
it  was  important  to  him  to  discover  how  he 
could  break  himself  of  a  new  habit  of  biting  the 
end  of  his  pen-holder. 

And  yet,  under  that  flood  of  roofs,  Joe  was 
struggling  with  that  crucial  problem.  He  finally 
settled  it  by  deciding  to  smoke  lots  of  cigars,  and 
proceeded  to  light  one  as  a  beginning.  He 
smoked  one,  then  a  second,  then  a  third — which 
was  certainly  bad  for  his  health.  He  was  in  the 
throes  of  a  violent  reaction. 

Several  days  of  relentless  activity  had  followed 
the  moving  in.  There  was  much  to  do.  The 
four  rooms  became  immaculately  clean — sweet- 
ened up  with  soap  and  water,  with  neat  wall- 

120 


NINE-TENTHS 


paper,  with  paint  and  furniture.  Even  the 
dark  inner  bedrooms  contrived  to  look  cozy  and 
warm  and  inviting.  Joe's  mother  was  a  true 
New  England  housekeeper,  which  meant  scrupu- 
lous order,  cleanliness,  and  brightness.  The  one 
room  exempt  from  her  rule  was  Joe's.  After 
the  first  clean-up,  his  mother  did  not  even  try  to 
begin  on  it. 

"You're  hopeless,  Joe,"  she  laughed,  "and 
you'll  ruin  faster  than  I  can  set  right." 

And  so  that  editorial  office  soon  became  a  nest 
of  confusion.  The  walls  were  lined  with  book- 
shelves and  a  quaint  assortment  of  books,  old  and 
new,  populated  not  only  these,  but  the  floor,  the 
two  tables,  the  roll-top  desk,  and  here  and  there 
a  chair.  White  paper  began  to  heap  up  in  the 
corners.  Magazines — "my  contemporaries,"  said 
the  proud  editor — began  their  limitless  flood. 
And  the  matting  on  the  floor  was  soon  worn 
through  by  Joe's  perpetual  pacing. 

The  whole  home,  however,  began  to  have  at- 
mosphere— personality.  There  was  something 
open,  hospitable,  warm  about  it — something 
comfortable  and  livable. 

.  Among  the  first  things  Joe  did  was  to  procure 
two  assistants.  One  was  the  bookkeeper,  Nathan 
Slate,  a  lean  and  dangling  individual,  who  col- 
lapsed over  his  high  desk  in  the  corner  like  a 
many-bladed  penknife.  He  was  thin  and  ca- 
daverous, and  spoke  in  a  meek  and  melancholy 
voice,  studied  and  slow.  He  dressed  in  black 

121 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

and  tried  to  suppress  his  thin  height  by  stooping 
low  and  hanging  his  head.  The  other  addition 
was  Billy,  the  office-boy,  a  sharp,  bright  youth 
with  red  hair  and  brilliant  blue  eyes. 

There  was  much  else  to  do.  For  instance, 
there  were  the  money  affairs  to  get  in  shape. 
Joe  secured  a  five-per-cent.  mortgage  with  his 
capital.  Marty  Briggs  paid  down  two  thousand 
cash  and  was  to  pay  two  thousand  a  year  and 
interest.  So  Joe  could  figure  his  income  at  some- 
what over  six  thousand  dollars,  and,  as  he 
hoped  that  he  and  his  mother  would  use  not 
more  than  fifteen  hundred  a  year,  or,  at  the  most, 
two  thousand,  he  felt  he  had  plenty  to  throw 
into  his  enterprise. 

Among  the  first  things  that  Joe  discovered  was 
a  gift  of  his  own  temperament.  He  was  a  born 
crowd-man,  a  " mixer."  He  found  he  could  in- 
stantly assume  the  level  of  the  man  he  talked 
with,  and  that  his  tongue  knew  no  hindrance. 
Thought  flowed  easily  into  speech.  This  gave 
him  a  freedom  among  men,  a  sense  of  belonging 
anywhere,  and  singled  him  out  from  the  rest.  It 
gave  him,  too,  the  joy  of  expression — the  joy  of 
throwing  out  his  thought  and  getting  its  im- 
mediate reaction  in  other  lives.  Yet  he  under- 
stood perfectly  the  man  who  seemed  shy  and 
recluse,  who  was  choked-off  before  strangers,  and 
who  yet  burned  to  be  a  democrat,  to  give  and 
take,  to  share  alien  lives,  to  be  of  the  moving 
throng  of  life.  Such  a  man  was  the  victim 

122 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

either  of  a  wrong  education,  an  education  of 
repression  that  discouraged  any  personal  display, 
or  he  had  a  twist  in  his  temperament.  Joe,  who 
began  to  be  well  aware  of  his  gift,  used  it  without 
stint  and  found  that  it  had  a  contagious  quality — 
it  loosened  other  people  up ;  it  unfolded  their  shy 
and  secret  petals  like  sun  heat  on  a  bud ;  it  made 
the  desert  of  personality  blossom  like  the  rose. 
He  warmed  the  life  about  him  because  he  could 
express  himself. 

So  it  was  not  hard  for  Joe  to  shift  to  this  new 
neighborhood  and  become  absorbed  in  its  ex- 
istence. Tradespeople,  idlers,  roomers  and  land- 
lady in  the  house  accepted  him  at  once  and  felt 
as  if  they  had  known  him  all  their  lives.  By  a 
power  almost  of  intuition  he  probed  their  obscure 
histories  and  entered  into  their  destinies. 

However,  in  spite  of  these  activities  and  all 
the  bustle  and  stir  of  fresh  beginnings,  Joe,  that 
sunny  morning,  was  suffering  a  sharp  reaction. 
In  the  presence  of  Nathan  Slate  and  Billy  he  was 
pretending  to  work,  but  his  brain  was  as  dry  as  a 
soda-cracker.  It  was  that  natural  revulsion  of 
the  idealist  following  the  first  glow.  Here  he 
was,  up  against  a  reality,  and  yet  with  no  definite 
plan,  not  even  a  name  for  his  paper,  and  he  had 
not  even  begun  to  penetrate  the  life  about  him. 
The  throbbing  moment  had  arrived  when  he 
must  set  his  theories  into  motion,  drive  them  out 
into  the  lives  of  the  people,  and  get  reactions. 
But  how  ?  In  what  way  ?  His  brain  refused  to 

123 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

think,  and  he  felt  nothing  save  a  misery  and 
poverty  of  the  spirit  that  were  unendurable. 

It  seemed  to  him  suddenly  as  if  he  had  hastily 
embarked  on  a  search  for  the  fountain  of  eternal 
youth — a  voyage  that  followed  mirages,  and  was 
hollow  and  illusory.  Beginnings,  after  the  first 
flush,  always  have  this  quality  of  fake,  and  Joe 
was  standing  in  the  shadow-land  between  two 
lives.  The  old  life  was  receding  in  the  past ;  the 
new  life  had  not  yet  appeared.  Without  train- 
ing, without  experience,  without  definite  knowl- 
edge of  the  need  to  be  met,  with  only  a  strong 
desire  and  a  mixed  ideal,  and  almost  without  his 
own  volition,  he  found  himself  now  sitting  at  a 
desk  in  West  Tenth  Street,  with  two  employees, 
and  nothing  to  do.  How  out  of  this  emptiness 
was  he  to  create  something  vital  ? 

This  naturally  brought  a  pang  he  might  have 
anticipated.  He  had  a  sudden  powerful  hanker- 
ing for  the  old  life.  That  at  least  was  man-size — 
his  job  had  been  man's  work.  He  looked  back 
at  those  fruitful  laborious  days,  with  their  rich 
interest  and  absorbing  details,  their  human  com- 
panionships, and  had  an  almost  irrepressible  de- 
sire to  rush  out,  take  the  elevated  train,  go  down 
East  Eighty-first  Street,  ascend  the  elevator,  ring 
the  bell,  and  enter  his  dominion  of  trembling, 
thundering  presses.  He  could  smell  the  old 
smells,  he  could  see  the  presses  and  the  men,  he 
could  hear  the  noise.  That  was  where  he  be- 
longed. Voluntarily  he  had  exiled  himself  from 

124 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

happiness  and  use.  He  wanted  to  go  back — 
wanted  it  hard,  almost  groaned  with  home- 
sickness. 

Such  struggles  are  death  throes  or  birth 
throes.  They  are  as  real  as  two  men  wrestling. 
Joe  could  sit  still  no  longer,  could  mask  no  longer 
the  combat  within  him.  So  he  rose  hastily  and 
went  out  and  wandered  about  the  shabby,  un- 
friendly neighborhood.  He  had  a  mad  desire, 
almost  realized,  to  take  the  car  straight  to 
Eighty- first  Street,  and  only  the  thought  of 
Marty  Briggs  in  actual  possession  held  him  back. 
Finally  he  went  back  and  took  lunch,  and  again 
tried  the  vain  task  of  pretending  to  work. 

It  was  three  o'clock  when  he  surrendered.  He 
strode  in  to  his  mother. 

" Mother,"  he  said,  "isn't  there  something  we 
can  do  together?" 

"In  what  way?" 

"Any  way.  I've  been  idling  all  day  and  I'm 
half  dead."  He  laughed  strangely.  "I  believe 
I'm  getting  nerves,  mother." 

"Nerves!"  She  looked  at  him  sharply.  "What 
is  it,  Joe?" 

"Oh!     It's  in-betweenness." 

"I  see."  She  smiled.  "Well,  there's  some 
shopping  to  do — " 

"Thank  Heaven!" 

So  they  went  out  together  and  took  the  Sixth 
Avenue  car  to  Thirty-fourth  Street.  Their  shop- 
ping took  them  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and  then,  later, 

125 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

up  Broadway  to  Forty-second  Street.  It  was  a 
different  New  York  they  saw — in  fact,  the  New 
York  best  known  to  the  stranger.  The  gorgeous 
palaces  of  trade  glittered  and  sparkled,  shim- 
mered and  flashed,  with  jewels  and  silver,  with 
silks  and  knick-knacks.  The  immense  and  rich 
plenty  of  earth,  the  products  of  factories  and 
mills,  were  lavishly  poured  here,  gathered  in  isles, 
about  which  a  swarming  sea  of  well-dressed 
women  pushed  and  crowded.  The  high  ceilings 
were  hung  with  glowing  moons  of  light;  the 
atmosphere  was  magic  with  confused  talk,  shuf- 
fling footsteps,  and  all  the  hum  and  stir  of  a 
human  hive.  Up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue  swept 
a  black  thick  stream  of  motors  and  carriages  in 
which  women  and  men  lounged  and  stared.  The 
great  hotels  sucked  in  and  poured  out  tides  of 
jeweled  and  lace- wrapped  creatures,  and  in  the 
lighted  interiors  of  restaurants  were  rouged 
cheeks  and  kindled  eyes. 

As  Joe  and  his  mother  reached  Forty-second 
Street,  that  whirpool  of  theaters  released  its 
matinee  crowds,  a  fjood  of  youth,  beauty,  bright- 
ness, and  luxury. 

And  it  seemed  to  Joe,  seeing  all  this  life  from  a 
Tenth  Street  viewpoint,  that  here  was  a  great 
city  of  wealth  and  idleness.  Evidently  a  large 
population  had  nothing  to  do  save  shop  and 
motor,  eat  and  idle.  How  could  he  from  shab- 
by Tenth  Street  send  out  a  sheet  of  paper  that 
would  compete  with  these  flashing  avenues  ? 

126 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

The  sight  depressed  him.  He  said  as  much 
to  his  mother. 

''This  is  New  York,"  he  said,  ''barbaric,  power- 
ful, luxuriant.  These  people  are  the  power  of 
the  city — the  mighty  few — these  are  the  owners. 
What  can  we  do  with  them  ?" 

His  mother  sensed  then  the  struggle  in  his 
mind. 

''Joe,"  she  cried,  "isn't  there  any  place  where 
we  can  see — the  other  people?" 

There  was.  They  took  the  car  down  to  Eighth 
Street,  they  walked  east,  and  entered  little 
Washington  Park,  with  its  monumental  arch, 
and  its  shadowy  trees,  its  wide  and  curving  walks 
—its  general  sense  of  being  a  green  breathing- 
space  in  the  sweep  of  streets.  As  they  walked 
through  the  sharp  wintry  air  in  the  closing  sun- 
light, what  time  the  blue  electric  lights  gleamed 
out  among  the  almost  naked  boughs,  the  six- 
o'clock  whistles  began  blowing  from  factories  all 
about  them — a  glad  shriek  that  jumped  from 
street  to  street  over  the  city — and  at  once 
across  the  eastern  plaza  of  the  park  streamed  the 
strange  torrent  of  the  workers — a  mighty,  swift 
march  of  girls  and  boys,  women  and  men,  home- 
ward bound,  the  day's  work  ended — a  human 
stream,  in  the  gray  light,  steeped  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  accomplishment,  sweet  peace,  solution. 
All  life  seemed  to  touch  a  moment  of  harvest. 

Joe's  mother  was  thrilled,  and  in  spite  of  him- 
self Joe  felt  his  heart  clutched,  as  it  were,  in  a 

127 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

vise.  He  felt  the  strange,  strong,  human  grip. 
It  was  a  marvelous  spectacle,  though  common, 
daily,  and  cheap  as  life. 

Joe's  mother  whispered,  in  a  low  voice :       .   • 

"Joe,  this  is  the  real  New  York!" 

And  then  again: 

"Those  others  are  only  a  fraction — these  are 
the  people." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Joe,  his  blood  surging  to 
his  cheeks,  "these  are  the  nine-tenths." 

They  went  closer  to  that  mighty  marching  host 
— they  saw  the  cheap  garments — baggy  trousers, 
torn  shoes,  worn  shirts;  they  saw  the  earnest, 
tired  faces,  the  white  and  toil-shrunk  counte- 
nances, the  poverty,  the  reality  of  pain  and  work, 
all  pressing  on  in  an  atmosphere  of  serious  prog- 
ress, as  if  they  knew  what  fires  roared,  what 
sinews  ached  down  in  the  foundations  of  the 
world  where  the  future  is  created.  And  Joe 
realized,  as  never  before,  that  upon  these  people 
and  their  captains,  their  teachers  and  interpre- 
ters, rested  the  burdens  of  civilization;  that  the 
mighty  city  was  wrought  by  their  hands  and 
those  who  dreamed  with  them,  that  the  foam  and 
sparkle  of  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue  bubbled 
up  from  that  strong  liquor  beneath.  And  he  be- 
lieved that  the  second-generation  idlers  had  some- 
how expropriated  the  toilers  and  were  living  like 
drones  in  the  hive,  and  he  felt  that  this  could 
not  be  forever,  and  he  was  seized  by  the  convic- 
tion that  a  change  could  only  come  through  the 

128 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

toilers  themselves.  Could  these  pale  people  but 
know  their  power,  know  their  standing,  know 
the  facts  of  this  strange  double  life,  and  then  use 
their  might  wisely  and  well,  constructively,  cre- 
atively, to  build  up  a  better  and  fairer  world,  a 
finer  justice,  a  more  splendid  day's  work,  a  hap- 
pier night's  home!  These  that  created  a  great 
city  could,  if  trained,  create  a  higher  life  in  that 
city! 

Surely  the  next  few  ages  of  the  future  had 
their  work  cut  out  for  them — the  most  stupen- 
dous task  the  race  had  ever  undertaken. 

Then,  after  all,  he  was  right.  All  who  could 
must  be  dedicated  to  the  work  of  sowing  enlight- 
enment, of  yeasting  the  crowds  with  knowledge 
and  love  and  light — all  who  could.  Then  he,  too, 
could  do  his  share;  he,  too,  could  reach  this 
crowd.  And  these  people — they  were  reach- 
able. No  theaters  and  restaurants  competed 
with  him  here.  Their  hearts  and  minds  were 
open.  He  could  step  in  and  share  their  lives. 
He  had  done  so  in  his  shop,  and  these  were  of  the 
same  human  nature. 

Power  returned  to  him. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  his  eyes  flashing,  "it's  all 
right.  Now  I'm  ready  to  begin!  I'm  for  the 
nine-tenths." 

They  turned,  walking  home  in  silence,  and  as 
they  went  the  phrase  "nine-tenths,"  which  Joe 
must  have  picked  up  in  some  book  on  socialism  or 
some  sociological  study,  kept  haunting  his  mind. 

9  129 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

The  new  power  released  in  him  made  his  brain 
work  like  lightning — creatively.  Thoughts 
crowded,  combinations  sprung  up;  he  began  to 
actively  dream  and  scheme. 

"I've  got  it!"  he  cried.  "Why  not  call  my 
paper  The  Nine-Tenths?" 

"Good!" 

He  began  to  plan  aloud  as  the  quick  thoughts 
flashed. 

"An  eight-page  paper — weekly.  An  editorial, 
giving  some  of  the  plain  facts  about  civilization 
—simple  stuff  to  teach  the  people  what  industry 
means,  what  their  work  means,  what  they  ought 
to  be  doing.  Then  news — news  about  all  move- 
ments toward  freedom — labor,  strikes,  reform, 
new  laws,  schools — news  of  all  the  forces  work- 
ing for  betterment  —  a  concrete  statement  of 
where  the  world  stands  to-day  and  what  it  is  do- 
ing. But  a  fair  sheet,  mother.  No  railing,  no 
bitterness,  no  bomb- thro  wing.  Plenty  of  horse 
sense,  plenty  of  banking  the  fires,  of  delaying 
wisely.  No  setting  class  against  class.  No 
under- rating  of  leaders  and  captains.  Justice, 
but  plenty  of  mercy.  Facts,  but  plenty  of  phi- 
losophy to  cool  'em  off.  Progress  all  the  time, 
but  no  French  revolutions.  And  when  sides 
must  be  taken,  no  dishonest  compromises,  no 
cowardly  broad-mindedness  —  but  always  with 
the  weakest,  the  under  dog,  whenever  their  cause 
is  good.  That's  my  programme;  that's  The 
Nine-Tenths" 

130 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Of  course,"  said  his  mother,  "  you'll  see  things 
clearer  as  you  do  them.  There'll  be  changes." 

' '  Surely ! "  His  mind  was  already  miles  ahead . 
"Mother,  I've  got  it  now,  for  sure!" 

"What  now?"     She  laughed,  enthusiastically. 

'  *  Isn't  this  a  whopper  ?     No  ads. ' ' 

"But  why  not,  Joe ?  That  would  support  the 
paper." 

"No,  not  a  line.  I  don't  expect  the  paper  to 
pay.  That's  where  our  money  comes  in.  We 
mustn't  carry  a  line.  Don't  you  see?  There's 
hardly  a  paper  in  the  land  that  is  free.  They're 
influenced  by  their  advertising — that's  their 
bread  and  butter.  And  even  if  they're  not  in- 
fluenced, people  suspect  they  are.  We  must  be 
free  even  of  that  suspicion.  We  can  be  free- 
utterly  so — say  what  we  please — speak  our  minds 
out — and  nothing  to  hinder  us.  That  will  be 
unique — that  will  be  something  new  in  maga- 
zines. We'll  go  the  limit,  mother." 

His  mother  laughed. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Joe.  It's  worth  trying. 
But  how  are  you  going  to  circulate  the  paper?" 

"How?"  Again  his  mind  jumped  forward. 
' '  House-to-house  canvass — labor  unions — street 
corners.  I'm  going  to  dig  in  now,  get  acquainted 
with  the  people  round  about,  spread  it  any  old 
way.  And  I'm  going  to  start  with  the  idea  of  a 
big  future — twenty  thousand  copies  finally.  You 
see,  it  '11  be  a  sort  of  underground  newspaper — 
no  publicity — but  spreading  from  group  to  group 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

among  the  workers.  Broadway  and  up-town 
will  never  see  a  copy." 

So  the  new  life  started,  started  in  full  swing. 
Joe  worked  late  that  very  night  putting  his  plans 
on  paper,  and  the  next  morning  there  was  plenty 
of  activity  for  everybody.  Joe  bought  a  rebuilt 
cylinder  press  for  fifteen  hundred  dollars  and  had 
it  installed  in  the  basement.  Then  he  had  the 
basement  wired,  and  got  an  electric  motor  to 
furnish  the  power.  John  Rann  and  his  family 
were  moved  down  to  a  flat  farther  west  on  Tenth 
Street,  and  a  feeder,  a  compositor,  and  a  make-up 
man  were  hired  along  with  him.  In  the  press- 
room (the  basement)  was  placed  a  stone — a 
marble-top  table — whereon  the  make-up  man 
could  take  the  strips  of  type  as  they  came  from 
the  compositors,  arrange  them  into  pages,  and 
''lock  them  up"  in  the  forms,  ready  to  put  on 
the  presses. 

Then  Joe  arranged  with  a  printery  to  set  up 
the  type  weekly;  with  a  bindery  to  bind,  fold, 
bundle,  and  address  the  papers;  and  with  Pat- 
rick Flynn,  truckman,  to  distribute  the  papers  to 
newsdealers. 

Next  Joe  made  a  tour  of  the  neighborhood, 
spoke  with  the  newsdealers,  told  them  that  all 
they  would  have  to  do  was  to  deliver  the  papers 
to  the  addresses  printed  upon  them.  He  found 
them  willing  to  thus  add  to  their  income. 

Thus  he  made  ready.  But  he  was  not  yet  pre- 
pared to  get  subscriptions  (one  dollar  a  year  or 

132 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

twenty-five  cents  a  quarter) ,  feeling  that  first  he 
must  have  a  sample  paper  to  show. 

The  labor  on  that  first  number  was  a  joy  to 
him.  He  would  jump  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  rush  into  the  office,  light  the  gas,  and  get 
to  work  in  his  nightgown.  He  was  at  it  at  all 
hours.  And  it  proved  to  be  an  enormous  task. 
Eight  pages  eight  by  twelve  do  not  read  like  a 
lot,  but  they  write  like  a  very  great  deal.  There 
was  an  editorial,  " Greetings  to  You,"  in  which 
Joe  set  forth  in  plain  words  the  ideas  and  ideals 
of  the  paper,  and  in  which  he  made  clear  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase  ''nine- tenths."  Then  he 
found  that  there  were  two  great  strikes  in  prog- 
ress in  the  city.  This  amazed  him,  as  there  was 
no  visible  sign  of  such  a  condition.  The  news- 
papers said  nothing  of  it,  and  peace  seemed  to 
brood  over  the  city's  millions.  Yet  there  were 
thousands  of  cloak-makers  out,  and  over  in 
Brooklyn  the  toilers  in  the  sugar  refineries  were 
having  little  pitched  battles  with  strike-breakers 
in  the  streets.  Three  men  had  been  killed  and 
a  score  wounded. 

Joe  dug  into  these  strikes,  called  at  the  union 
headquarters,  spoke  with  the  men,  even  called 
on  some  of  the  cloak-makers'  bosses  and  learned 
their  grievances.  Then  he  wrote  accounts  of  the 
strike  without  taking  sides,  merely  reporting  the 
facts  as  fairly  as  he  could. 

In  this  way,  and  with  the  aid  of  clippings,  and 
by  printing  that  poem  by  Lowell  which  was  his 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

mother's  favorite,  wherein  was  the  couplet  al- 
ready quoted, 

"  They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  three," 

he  made  up  a  hodge-podge  of  a  magazine. 

Up  in  the  corner  of  the  editorial  page  he  ran 
the  following,  subject  to  change: 

THE  NINE-TENTHS 

A    WEEKLY    WORD    ABOUT    MEN,  WOMEN,  AND    CHILDREN 


MY    MOTTO 

I  ACCEPT  LIFE  LARGELY,  BUT  NOT  IN  DETAILS 


SOME  OF  THE  DETAILS  NOT  ACCEPTED 
ARE 

Anything  that  prevents  a  child  from  being  well  born 
and  from  fulfilling  its  possibilities. 

Anything  that  prevents  a  woman  or  man  from  using 
every  good  side  of  her  or  his  nature. 

ABOUT    THESE    DETAILS    NO    DOUBT! 
DISEASE  EXCESS 

WANT  OVERWORK 

CHILD    LABOR 

And  let's  avoid  jealousy,  quarrels,  ridicule,  meanness, 
and  the  rest  of  the  mosquito  things. 

Otherwise:   what  a  glorious  world. 
134 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

This  didn't  please  him  altogether,  but  he 
wanted  to  be  definite  and  simple,  and  he  wanted 
to  show  that  he  wasn't  a  narrow  partisan. 

Thus  the  first  number  came  to  be.  As  he 
turned  it  out,  Billy  rushed  it  in  batches  to  the 
compositors,  and  when  finally  it  all  came  back  in 
strips  of  type,  it  was  hurried  down  to  the  idlers 
in  the  basement.  At  ten-thirty  that  chilly,  dust- 
blowing  morning,  when  the  sun-stricken  air  glit- 
tered with  eddies  of  motes,  Joe,  sitting  at  his 
desk,  had  the  exquisite  rapture  of  feeling  the 
building  tremble. 

He  rushed  to  his  mother,  and  exulted. 

"Can't  you  feel  the  press  going?     Listen!" 

Truly  the  new  life  had  begun — the  vision  was 
beginning  to  crystallize  in  daily  living. 

"We're  in  the  fight  now,  mother!"  he  cried. 
"There's  something  doing!" 

And  later,  when  Joe  stood  at  the  back  of  the 
press  and  that  first  complete  sheet  came  through, 
he  picked  it  up  as  if  it  were  a  new-born  child,  as 
indeed  it  was,  wet,  drippy,  forlorn,  and  weird, 
and  yet  a  wonder  and  a  miracle.  Joe  looked  on 
his  own  creation — the  little  sheets — the  big, 
black  The  Nine-Tenths — the  clear,  good  type. 
He  was  awed  and  reduced  almost  to  tears. 

He  mailed  a  copy  to  Myra  with  a  brief  note : 

DEAR  MYRA, — Here's  the  answer  to  your  question." 
I'm  doing  the  inclosed,  and  doing  it  in  West  Tenth 
Street.  Do  you  know  the  neighborhood  ?  Old  Green- 

135 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

wich  Village,  red,  shabby,  shoddy,  common,  and  vulgar. 
Mother  and  I  are  as  happy  as  children.  How  are  you  ? 
Your  letter  is  splendid.  I  am  sure  you  will  come  to 
understand.  When  are  you  returning  to  New  York? 

As  ever, 

JOE  ELAINE. 

And  he  thought,  ''Now  I  have  something  to 
show  Sally  Heffer!" 


Ill 

OTHERS:    AND  SALLY  HEFFER 

JOE  filled  a  stiff  cloth  portfolio  with  a  batch 
of  9/lOs  (abbreviation  for  home  use), 
pulled  his  gray  hat  over  his  bushy  hair,  and  went 
over  and  tapped  the  collapsible  Slate  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Joe." 

"Nathan,"  cried  Joe,  excitedly,  "if  there's  a 
rush  of  subscribers  while  I'm  gone,  make  'em 
stand  in  line,  and  each  wait  his  turn.  But  don't 
let  them  block  the  car  tracks — string  'em  around 
the  corner." 

Nathan  gazed  at  Joe  like  a  lost  soul. 

"But  I  think,  Mr.  Joe,"  he  said,  slowly,  "you 
place  your  hopes  too  high.  I  don't  like  to  be 
too  gloomy,  Mr.  Joe,  but  I  have  my  doubts 
about  a  rush." 

"Slate,"  cried  Joe,  slapping  the  tragic  book- 
keeper a  whack,  "you're  inspiring!" 

And  he  swung  out  to  the  street  in  the  brilliant 
morning  sunshine,  ready  to  begin  his  canvass. 

"Next  door,"  he  mused,  "is  the  place  to 
start." 

There  was  a  woman  sitting  on  the  stoop,  a  two- 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

year-old  girl  in  her  arms.    Joe  paused  and  looked 
at  the  baby. 

"Hello,  you." 

The  baby  looked  at  him  a  little  doubtfully,  and 
then  laughed. 

"Girl  or  boy?"  asked  Joe  of  the  mother. 

"Girl." 

"How  old?" 

"Two." 

"She's  a  darling!     What's  her  name?" 

"Name's  Annie." 

' '  Named  after  you  ?" 

"Sure!" 

"You  wouldn't  mind  if  I  gave  her  a  pepper- 
mint to  suck?" 

"Would  you  mind  some  candy,  Annie?" 

"Candy!"  shrieked  the  child. 

Joe  dove  into  his  bulging  pocket  and  produced 
a  good  hard  white  one.  Annie  snatched  it  up 
and  sucked  joyously. 

"Thank  the  man,  Annie." 

"Thank  you." 

"Is  this  your  only  one,  Mrs.  — " 

"Cassidy's  my  name!  No,  I've  buried  two 
others." 

"From  this  house?" 

"No,  we  keep  movin' — "  Mrs.  Cassidy  laugh- 
ed a  little. 

Joe  made  a  grim  face. 

"Jump  your  rent,  eh?" 

Mrs.  Cassidy  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
138 


OTHERS:    AND    SALLY    HEFFER 

"What  can  poor  people  do?" 

"But  hasn't  Mr.  Cassidy  a  job?" 

"He  has  when  he  has  it — but  it's  bum  work. 
Slave  like  a  nigger  and  then  laid  off  for  six 
months,  maybe." 

"What  kind  of  work  is  that?" 

1  'Longshore — he's  a  'longshoreman." 

"And  when  he's  unemployed  you  have  a  hard 
time,  don't  you?" 

' '  Hard  ?' '  Mrs.  Cassidy's  voice  broke.  ' '  What 
can  we  do  ?  There's  the  insurance  every  week — 
fifteen  cents  for  my  man,  ten  cents  for  me,  and 
five  cents  for  Annie.  We  couldn't  let  that  go; 
it's  buryin '-money,  and  there  ain't  a  Cassidy  isn't 
going  to  have  as  swell  a  funeral  as  any  in  the 
ward.  And  then  we've  got  to  live.  I've  found 
one  thing  in  this  world — the  harder  you  work 
the  less  you  get." 

Joe  spoke  emphatically. 

"Mrs.  Cassidy,  when  your  husband's  out  of 
work,  through  no  fault  of  his  own ,  he  ought  to  get 
a  weekly  allowance  to  keep  you  going." 

"And  who's  to  give  it  to  him?" 

"Who?  Do  you  know  what  they  do  in  Ger- 
many?" 

"What  do  they  do  in  Germany?" 

' '  They  have  insurance  for  the  unemployed,  and 
when  a  man's  out  he  gets  so-and-so-much  a  week. 
We  ought  to  have  it  in  America." 

"How  can  we  get  it?  Who  listens  to  the 
poor?" 


THE    NINE-TENTHS] 

"Your  man  belongs  to  a  union,  doesn't  he?" 

"Sure!" 

"Well,  the  trouble  is  our  people  here  don't 
know  these  things.  If  they  knew  them,  they'd 
get  together  and  make  the  bosses  come  round. 
It's  ignorance  holding  us  all  back." 

"I've  often  told  Tim  he  ought  to  study  some- 
thing. There's  grand  lectures  in  the  schools 
every  Tuesday  and  Thursday  night.  But  Tim 
don't  put  stock  in  learning.  He  says  learning 
never  bought  a  glass  of  beer. 

Joe  laughed. 

"Mrs.  Cassidy,  that's  not  what  I  mean. 
Listen.  I'm  a  neighbor  of  yours — live  next 
door—" 

' ' Sure !  Didn't  I  see  you  move  in  ?  When  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Leupp,  seen  your  iron  beds,  she  up 
and  went  to  Macy's  and  bought  one  herself. 
What  yer  doing  in  there,  anyway,  with  that 
printing-press?  It  gives  me  the  trembles." 

Joe  laughed  heartily. 

"You  feel  the  press  in  this  house?" 

"First  time,  I  thought  it  was  an  earthquake, 
Mr.  Elaine." 

Joe  was  abashed. 

"How'd  you  know  my  name?" 

"Ast  it  off  your  landlady." 

"Well,  you're  wrong— I'm  Mr.  Joe." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  was  hugely  amused. 

"You're  one  grand  fellow,  let  me  tell  you. 
But,  oh,  that  black,  thin  one — he's  creepy,  Mr. 

140 


OTHERS:    AND    SALLY    HEFFER 

Joe.  But  your  mother — she's  all  right.  I  was 
telling  Mrs.  Rann  so  myself." 

Joe  sighed  tragically. 

"I  suppose  the  whole  neighborhood  knows  all 
my  family  secrets." 

11  Pretty  near,"  laughed  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"Well,  there's  one  thing  you  didn't  know." 

"What's  that?" 

"About  my  newspaper." 

"What  about  it?" 

"What  paper  do  you  take?" 

Mrs.  Cassidy  mentioned  a  daily  penny  paper. 

"Let's  see,"  said  Joe,  "that's  eleven  cents  a 
week,  isn't  it?  Will  you  spend  two  cents  more, 
and  take  The  Nine-Tenths?" 

"Yours?" 

"It's  a  paper  that  tells  about  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  and  what  the  poor  ought  to  do  to  get  more 
out  of  life.  Here,  take  this  copy,  keep  it;  make 
Tim  read  it." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  was  handed  a  neat  little  sheet, 
eight  by  twelve  inches,  clearly  printed.  There 
was  something  homely  and  inviting  about  it, 
something  hospitable  and  honest.  The  woman 
fingered  it  curiously. 

"Ain't  it  cute?"  she  cried. 

"It's  all  written  for  just  such  people  as  you, 
and  I  want  you  to  take  it." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

"Well,  you  pay  twenty-five  cents  and  get  it 
for  three  months,  once  a  week,  and  let  Tim  read 

141 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

it  out  loud.     Say,  don't  you  think  Annie 'd  like 
to  see  the  printing-press?" 

"'Deed  she  would!" 

And  then  Joe  did  the  one  thing  that  won.  He 
seized  up  little  Annie  himself,  and  bore  her  down 
to  the  press-room,  Mrs.  Cassidy  following,  and 
mentally  concluding  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
ward  like  Mr.  Joe. 

Result:  first  subscription,  and  Joe  elated  with 
victory.  All  of  which  shows,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, that  Joe  was  considerable  of  a  politician, 
and  did  not  hesitate  to  adopt  the  methods  of 
Tammany  Hall. 

It  was  the  next  day,  at  a  street  corner,  that, 
quite  accidentally,  Joe  met  Michael  Dunan, 
truckman. 

"I've  got  a  cigar,"  said  Joe,  "but  I  haven't  a 
match." 

"I've  got  a  match,"  said  Michael,  easily,  "but 
I  haven't  a  cigar." 

"My  name's  Joe  Blaine,"  said  Joe,  handing 
over  a  panetela. 

"Mine's  Mike  Dunan,"  said  Michael,  passing 
a  match. 

They  lit  up  together. 

"The  drinks  are  on  me,"  murmured  Michael. 

They  stepped  into  the  saloon  at  the  corner — a 
bright,  mirrory  place,  whose  tiled  floor  was  cov- 
ered with  sawdust,  and  whose  bar  shone  like 
mahogany. 

"Two  beers,  Donovan." 
142 


OTHERS:    AND    SALLY    HEFFER 

"Dark  or  light,  Mike?" 

"Dark." 

They  drank.     Michael  pounded  the  bar. 

"Joe  Blaine,  the  times  are  hard." 

"How  so,  Michael?" 

"The  rich  are  too  rich,  and  the  poor  too  poor. 
I'm  tired  of  it!" 

"Then  look  this  over." 

Michael  looked  it  over,  and  bubbled  with  joy. 

'  *  That's  great.  Did  you  spiel  it  out  ?  Did  you 
say  this  little  piece?  Joe,  I  want  to  join  your 
union!" 

Joe  laughed;  he  sized  up  the  little  man,  with 
his  sparkling  eyes,  his  open  face,  his  fiery,  musical 
voice,  his  golden  hair.  And  he  had  an  inspira- 
tion. 

"Mike,"  he  said,  "I'm  getting  out  this  paper 
up  the  street.  Have  a  press  there  and  an  office. 
Run  in  and  see  my  mother.  If  you  like  her,  tell 
me,  and  you  can  join  the  Stove  Circle." 

"And  what  may  the  Stove  Circle  be?" 

"The  get-together  club — my  advisory  board." 

"I'm  on." 

"See  here,  you,"  said  a  blunt,  biting,  deep- 
chested  voice  at  their  side.  "Let  me  get  a 
look." 

Joe  turned  and  met  Oscar  Heming,  delicatessen 
man,  stumpy,  bull-necked,  with  fierce  bristling 
mustache,  and  clothes  much  too  big  for  him. 
He  was  made  a  member  at  once  of  the  Stove 
Circle. 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

That  same  evening  Joe  went  down  three  steps 
into  a  little,  low,  cigar  store,  whose  gas-blazing 
atmosphere  reeked  with  raw  and  damp  tobacco. 
He  stepped  up  to  the  dusty  counter. 

"What's  your  best?" 

The  proprietor,  a  wise  little  owl  of  a  man,  with 
thin  black  hair,  and  untidy  spade  beard,  and  big 
round  glasses  enlarging  his  big  brown  eyes,  placed 
a  box  before  him. 

"My  own  make — Underdogs — clear  Havana — 
six  cents  apiece." 

"I  like  the  name.  Give  me  ten.  But  ex- 
plain!" 

"Well" — Nathan  Latsky  (for  so  he  proved  to 
be)  shrugged  his  shoulders — "I'm  one  myself. 
But — what's  in  a  name  ?" 

"He's  a  red  revolutionist!"  said  a  voice,  and 
Joe,  turning,  noticed  two  men  leaning  beside  him 
at  the  counter;  one,  a  fine  and  fiery  Jew,  hand- 
some, dark,  young ;  the  other,  a  large  and  gentle 
Italian,  with  pallid  features,  dark  hair  sprinkled 
with  gray,  and  a  general  air  of  largeness  and 
leadership  about  him.  The  Jew  had  spoken. 

"Why  a  red?"  asked  Joe. 

"Oh,"  said  Latsky,  quietly,  "I  come  from 
Russia,  you  know!" 

"Well,  I'm  a  revolutionist  myself,"  said  Joe. 
"But  I  haven't  any  color  yet." 

"Union  man?"  asked  the  Italian. 

"Not  exactly.     I  run  a  radical  newspaper." 

"What's  the  name  of  it?"  asked  the  Jew. 
144 


OTHERS:  AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

"The  Nine-Tenths:' 

The  words  worked  magic.  They  were  all 
eagerness,  and  exchanged  names.  Thus  Joe 
came  to  know  Jacob  Izon  and  Salvatore  Giotto 
and  Nathan  Latsky.  He  was  greatly  interested 
in  Izon,  the  facts  of  whose  life  he  soon  came  to 
know.  Izon  was  a  designer,  working  at  Marrin's, 
the  shirtwaist  manufacturer;  he  made  thirty 
dollars  a  week,  had  a  wife  and  two  children,  and 
was  studying  engineering  in  a  night  school.  He 
and  his  wife  had  come  from  Russia,  where  they 
had  been  revolutionists. 

The  three  men  examined  the  paper  closely. 

"That's  what  we  need,"  said  Izon.  "You 
must  let  us  help  to  spread  it!" 

Joe  added  the  three  to  the  Stove  Circle. 

He  went  to  Giotto's  house  with  him,  up  to  the 
sixth  floor  of  a  tenement,  and  met  the  Italian's 
neat,  dark-eyed  wife,  and  looked  in  on  the  three 
sleeping  children.  Then  under  the  blazing  gas 
in  the  crowded  room,  with  its  cheap,  frail,  shiny 
furniture,  its  crayons  on  the  wall,  its  crockery  and 
cheap  clocks,  and  with  the  noise  of  the  city's 
night  rising  all  about  them,  the  two  big  men 
talked  together.  Joe  was  immensely  interested. 
The  Italian  was  large-hearted,  open-minded, 
big  in  body  and  soul,  and  spoke  quaintly,  but 
thoughtfully. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  said  Joe. 

Giotto  spread  out  the  palms  of  his  hands. 
What  to  tell  ?    I  get  a  good  education  in  the 
10  145 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

old  country — but  not  much  spik  English — better 
read,  better  write  it.  I  try  hard  to  learn.  Come 
over  here,  and  education  no  good.  Nobody  want 
Italian  educated  man.  So  worked  on  Italian 
paper — go  round  and  see  the  poor — many  trag- 
edies, many — like  the  theater.  Write  a  novel,  a 
romance,  about  the  poor.  Wish  I  could  write  it 
in  English." 

1 '  Good  work, ' '  cried  Joe .  * '  Then  what  did  you 
do?" 

Giotto  laughed. 

"Imported  the  wine — got  broke — open  the  sa- 
loon. Toughs  come  there,  thieves,  to  swindle  the 
immigrants.  Awfully  slick.  No  good  to  warn 
immigrants — they  lose  all  their  money.  Come 
in  crying.  What  can  I  do  ?  I  get  after  the  bums 
and  they  say,  'Giotto  no  good;  we  will  kill  him.' 
Then  I  get  broke  again.  Go  to  West  Virginia 
and  work  in  the  coal-mine — break  my  leg.  And 
that  was  the  baddest  place  in  the  world." 

"The  mine?" 

"And  the  town.  Laborers — Italian,  nigger; 
saloons  and  politics — Jews;  bosses  all  Irish — 
nothing  but  the  saloons  and  the  women  to 
spenda  the  money.  Company  own  everything — 
stores,  saloons,  women.  Pay  you  the  money 
and  get  it  all  back.  Every  day  a  man  killed. 
Hell!" 

"Then  where  did  you  go?" 

"Chicago — printing — anything  to  do  I  could 
get.  Sometimes  make  forty  cents  a  day.  Little. 

146 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

Have  to  feed  and  work  for  wife  and  three  chil- 
dren. I  try  and  try.  Hod-carrier" — Giotto 
laughed  at  the  memory — "press  coats — any- 
thing. Then  come  back  here." 

"And  what  are  you  doing  now?" 

"I  try  to  make  labor  union  with  Italians. 
Hard  work.  Italians  live  like  pigs — ignorant — 
not — not  social.  Down-stairs  live  a  Calabria 
man,  makes  ice-cream — got  four  rooms — in  the 
four  rooms  man,  wife,  mother,  five  children, 
fifteen  boarders — " 

"Go  on!"  cried  Joe.     "Why  do  you  stop?" 

Giotto  laughed. 

"So  maybe  your  paper  help.  Many  Italians 
read  English.  I  make  them  read  your  paper, 
Mr.  Joe." 

It  was  not  until  nearly  the  end  of  the  week  that 
Joe  sought  out  Sally  Heffer.  Though  every  day  he 
meditated  stepping  down  that  narrow  red  side 
street,  each  time  he  had  felt  unprepared,  throb- 
bingly  incapable ;  but  this  evening  as  he  finished 
his  work  and  was  on  the  way  home  it  seemed  that 
beyond  his  own  volition  he  suddenly  swerved  at 
her  corner,  hurried  down  the  lamp-lit  pave, 
searched  out  the  faded  number  in  the  meager 
light,  mounted  the  stoop,  and  pushed  open  the 
unlocked  door. 

He  was  very  weary — heart-sick  and  foot-sore 
— as  he  climbed  the  dark  steps  of  the  three-story 
house,  He  felt  pent  in  the  vast  pulsations  of  life 

147 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

about  him — a  feeling  of  impossibility,  of  a  task 
greater  than  he  could  bear.  He  simply  had  to 
see  the  young  woman  who  was  responsible  for 
sending  him  here.  He  had  a  vivid  mental  image 
of  her  tragic  loveliness,  of  how  she  had  stepped 
back  and  forth  before  him  and  suddenly  put  her 
hands  to  her  face  and  wept,  of  how  she  had  di- 
vined his  suffering,  and  impulsively  seized  his 
hand,  and  whispered,  "I  have  faith  in  you."  He 
expected  a  sort  of  self-illumined  Joan  of  Arc  with 
eyes  that  saw  visions,  with  spirit  flaming.  And 
even  in  the  dark  top-floor  hallway  he  was  awed, 
and  almost  afraid. 

Then  in  the  blackness,  his  eyes  on  the  thread 
of  light  beneath  the  rear  door,  he  advanced, 
reached  up  his  hand,  and  knocked. 

There  came,  somehow  surprising  him,  a  defi- 
nite, clear-edged  voice: 

"Come  in!" 

He  opened  the  door,  which  swung  just  free  of 
the  narrow  cot.  Just  beyond,  Sally  Heffer  was 
writing  at  a  little  table,  and  the  globed  gas 
burned  above  her,  lighting  the  thin  gold  of  her 
sparse  hair.  She  turned  her  face  to  him  quite 
casually,  the  same  pallid,  rounded  face,  the  same 
broad  forehead  and  gray  eyes,  of  remarkable 
clarity — eyes  that  were  as  clear  windows  allow- 
ing one  to  peer  in.  And  she  was  dressed  in  a 
white  shirtwaist  and  the  same  brown  skirt,  and 
over  a  hook,  behind  her,  hung  the  same  brown 
coat.  Yet  joe  was  shocked.  This  was  not  the 

148 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY  HEFFER 

Sally  Heffer  of  his  dreams — but  rather  a  refresh- 
ing, forceful,  dynamic  young  woman,  brimming 
over  with  the  joy  of  life.  And  even  in  that  flash 
of  strangeness  he  sensed  the  fact  that  at  the  time 
he  had  met  her  she  was  merely  the  voice  of  a 
vast  insurgent  spirit,  merely  the  instrument  of  a 
great  event.  This  was  the  e very-day  Sally,  a 
quite  livable,  lovable  human  being,  healthy,  free 
in  her  actions,  pulsing  with  the  life  about  her. 
The  very  words  she  used  were  of  a  different 
order. 

And  as  she  casually  glanced  around  she  began 
to  stare,  her  eyes  lit  with  wonder,  and  she 
arose,  exclaiming: 

"Mr.— Elaine  r 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  tension  snapped 
within  him ;  he  felt  common  and  homely  again ; 
he  felt  comfortable  and  warm;  and  he  smiled 
wearily. 

"Yes,  "he  said,  "I'm  here." 

She  came  close  to  him,  more  and  more  in- 
credulous, and  the  air  became  electric. 

"But  what  brings  you  here?" 

"I  live  here— West  Tenth." 

"Inhere?     Why?" 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  search  through  his. 

"You  made  me,"  he  murmured. 

She  smiled  strangely. 

"That  night?" 

"Yes." 

Impulsively  her  hand  went  out,  and  he  clasped 
149 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

it  ...  her  hand  seemed  almost  frozen.     Tears 
of  humility  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

'  *  I  was  high  and  mighty  that  night,  .  .  .  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.  ...  But  you  ...  do  you 
realize  what  a  wonderful  thing  you've  done?" 

He  laughed  awkwardly. 

4 'Yes,  here's  what  I've  done" — he  handed  her 
a  copy  of  The  Nine-Tenths — "and  it's  very 
wonderful." 

She  gave  a  strange,  short  laugh  again — excite- 
ment, exultation — and  held  the  paper  as  if  it 
were  a  living  thing. 

'This  .  .  .  The  Nine-Tenths  ...  oh!  ...  for  the 
working  people.  .  .  .  Let  me  see!" 

She  went  to  the  light,  spread  the  paper  and 
eagerly  read.  Then  she  glanced  back  a  moment 
and  saw  his  worn  face  and  the  weary  droop  of  his 
back. 

"Say — you're  dead  tired.  Sit  down.  You 
don't  mind  the  bed,  do  you?" 

He  smiled  softly. 

"I  don't!  I  am  pretty  much  done  up."  And 
he  sank  down,  and  let  his  hands  droop  between 
his  knees. 

Sally  read,  and  then  suddenly  turned  to  him. 

"This  editorial  is — it's  just  a  ripper." 

The  author  felt  the  thrill  of  a  creator.  She 
went  on: 

"I  wish  every  working-girl  in  New  York  could 
read  this." 

"So  do  I." 

150 


OTHERS:    AND   SALLY  HEFFER 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  more  and  more 
excited. 

"So  this  is  what  you're  doing.  I  must  pinch 
myself — it's  all  a  dream!  Too  good  to  be  true." 

Suddenly  there  seemed  to  be  a  reversal  in  their 
relationships.  Before,  his  end  of  the  beam  was 
down,  hers  up.  But  subtly  in  her  voice  he  felt 
the  swing  to  the  other  extreme.  She  had  set  him 
in  a  realm  above  herself. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "just  how  you  came  to  go 
into  this." 

He  told  her  a  little,  and  as  he  spoke  he  became 
thoroughly  at  his  ease  with  her,  as  if  she  were  a 
man,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  their  swift  comrade- 
ship they  could  laugh  at  each  other. 

"Mr.  Blaine,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "if  I  got  you 
into  this,  it's  up  to  me  to  help  you  win.  I'm  go- 
ing to  turn  into  an  agent  for  you — I'll  make  'em 
subscribe  right  and  left." 

Joe  laughed  at  her. 

"Lordy,  if  you  knew  how  good  it  is  to  hear 
this — after  tramping  up  three  miles  of  stairs  and 
more  and  nabbing  a  tawdry  twenty  subscrip- 
tions." 

"Is  that  all  you  got?" 

"People  don't  understand." 

"We'll  make  them!"  cried  Sally,  clenching  her 
fist. 

Joe  laughed  warmly ;  he  was  delighted  with  her. 

"Are  you  working  here?"  he  asked. 

"Yes — you  know  I  used  to  be  in  Newark — I 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

was  the  president  of  the  Newark  Hat-Trimmers' 
Union." 

''And  now?" 

"I'm  trying  to  organize  the  girls  here." 

"Well,"   he  muttered,   grimly.     "I  wouldn't 
like  to  be  your  boss,  Miss  Heffer." 

She  laughed  in  her  low  voice. 

"Let  me  tell  you  what  sort  I  am!"  And  she 
sat  down,  crossed  her  legs,  and  clasped  her  hands 
on  her  raised  knee.  "I  was  working  in  that 
Newark  factory,  and  the  girls  told  me  to  ask  the 
boss,  Mr.  Plump,  for  a  half  holiday.  So  I  went 
into  his  office  and  said:  'Mr.  Plump,  the  girls 
want  a  half  holiday.'  He  was  very  angry.  He 
said:  'You  won't  get  it.  Mind  your  own  busi- 
ness.' So  I  said,  quietly:  'All  right,  Mr.  Plump, 
we'll  take  a  whole  holiday.  We  won't  show  up 
Monday.'  Then  he  said  to  me,  'Sally  Heffer,  go. 
to  hell!'  He  was  the  first  man  to  say  such  a 
thing  to  my  face.  Well,  one  of  the  girls  found 
me  in  the  hall  drying  my  eyes,  and  when  she  got 
.the  facts  she  went  back  and  told  the  others,  and 
the  bunch  walked  out,  leaving  this  message: 
'Mr.  Plump,  we  won't  come  back  till  you  apolo- 
gize to  Sally.'  Well,  we  were  out  a  week,  and 
what  do  you  think?"  Sally  laughed  with  quiet 
joy.  "Plump  took  it  to  the  Manufacturers 
Association,  and  they — backed  him  ?  Not  a  bit! 
Made  him  apologize!" 

Joe  chuckled. 

"Great!     Great!" 

152 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

"Oh,  I'm  doing  things  all  the  time,"  said 
Sally.  "Organized  the  Jewish  hat- trimmers  in 
Newark,  and  all  my  friends  went  back  on  me  for 
sticking  up  for  the  Jews.  Did  I  care?  Ten 
years  ago  every  time  the  men  got  a  raise  through 
their  union,  the  girls  had  their  salaries  cut. 
Different  now.  We've  enough  sense  to  give  the 
easy  jobs  to  the  old  ladies — and  there's  lots  of 
old  ones  trimming  hats." 

"What's  trimming  hats?" 

Sally  plucked  up  Joe's  gray  hat,  and  then 
looked  at  Joe,  her  eyes  twinkling. 

"It's  a  little  hard  to  show  you  on  this.  But 
see  the  sweat-band  ?  It  has  a  lot  of  needle  holes 
in  it,  and  the  trimmer  has  to  stitch  through  those 
holes  and  then  sew  the  band  on  to  the  hat,  and 
all  the  odds  and  ends.  It  kills  eyes.  What  do 
you  think?"  she  went  on.  "The  girls  used  to 
drink  beer — bosses  let  'em  do  it  to  keep  them 
stimulated — and  it's  ruined  lots.  I  stopped  that." 

Joe  looked  at  Sally.  And  he  had  a  wild  im- 
pulse then,  a  crazy  thought. 

"How  much  do  you  get  a  week?" 

"Fifteen." 

"Well,"  said  Joe,  "I  want  a  woman's  depart- 
ment in  the  paper.  Will  you  handle  it  for  fifteen 
a  week?" 

"But  you  don't  know  me!" 

"Well,"  said  Joe,  "I'm  willing  to  gamble  on 
you." 

Sally's  low  voice  loosed  exultation. 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"You're  a  wonder,  Mr.  Elaine.  I'll  do  it! 
But  we're  both  plumb  crazy." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Joe,  "and  I  like  it!" 

They  shook  hands. 

"Come  over  to-morrow  and  meet  my  mother!" 
He  gave  her  the  address. 

"Good-by,"  she  said.  "And  let  me  tell  you, 
I'm  simply  primed  for  woman  stuff.  It  is  the 
women" — she  repeated  the  phrase  slowly — "it 
is  the  women,  as  you'll  find,  who  bear  the  burden 
of  the  world!  Good-by!" 

"Good-by!" 

He  went  down  into  the  open  air  exulting. 

He  could  not  overcome  his  astonishrqgnt. 
She  was  so  different  than  he  had  anticipated, 
so  much  more  human  and  simple;  so  much 
more  easy  to  fit  into  the  every  -  day  shake- 
up  of  life,  and  full  of  that  divine  allowance  for 
other  people's  shortcomings.  It  was  impossible 
to  act  the  tragedian  before  her.  And,  most  won- 
drous of  all,  she  was  a  '  *  live  wire. ' '  He  had  gone 
to  her  abasing  himself;  he  came  away  as  her 
employer,  subtly  cheered,  encouraged,  and  lifted 
to  new  heights  of  vivid  enterprise. 

"Sally  Heffer !"  he  kept  repeating.  "Isn't  she 
a  marvel !  And,  miracle  of  miracles,  she  is  going 
to  swing  the  great  work  with  me!" 

And  so  the  Stove  Circle  was  founded  with  Sally 
Heffer,  Michael  Dunan,  Oscar  Heming,  Nathan 
Latsky,  Salvatore  Giotto,  and  Jacob  Izon.  Its 
members  met  together  a  fortnight  later  on  a  cold 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

wintry  night.  The  stove  was  red-hot,'  the  circle 
drew  about  it  on  their  kitchen  chairs,  and  Joe 
spent  the  first  meeting  in  going  over  his  plans 
for  the  paper.  There  were  many  invaluable 
practical  comments — especially  on  how  to  get 
news  and  what  news  to  get — and  each  member 
was  delegated  to  see  to  one  department.  Latsky 
and  Giotto  took  immigration,  Dunan  took  politics 
and  the  Irish,  Heming  took  the  East  Side,  Izon, 
foreign  news,  and  Sally  Heffer  took  workwomen. 
Thereafter  each  one  in  his  way  visited  labor 
unions,  clubs,  and  societies  and  got  each  group  to 
pledge  itself  to  send  in  news.  They  helped,  too, 
to  get  subscriptions — both  among  their  friends 
and  in  the  unions.  In  this  way  Joe  founded  his 
paper.  He  never  repeated  the  personal  struggle 
of  that  first  week,  for  he  now  had  an  enthusiastic 
following  to  spread  the  work  for  him — men  and 
a  woman,  every  one  of  whom  had  access  to  large 
bodies  of  people  and  was  an  authority  in  his  own 
world. 

But  that  wonderful  week  was  never  forgotten  by 
Joe.  Each  day  he  had  risen  early  and  gone  forth 
and  worked  till  late  at  night,  making  a  canvass  in 
good  earnest.  House  after  house  he  penetrated, 
knocking  at  doors,  inquiring  for  a  mythical  Mrs. 
(or  Mr.)  Parsons  (this  to  hush  the  almost  univer- 
sal fear  that  he  had  come  to  collect  the  rent  or 
the  instalment  on  the  furniture  or  clothes  of  the 
family).  In  this  way  he  started  conversation. 
He  found  first  that  the  immediate  neighborhood 

iSS 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

knew  him  already.  And  he  found  many  other 
things.  He  found  rooms  tidy,  exquisite  in  their 
cleanliness  and  good  taste  of  arrangement;  and 
then  other  rooms  slovenly  and  filthy.  He  found 
young  wives  just  risen  from  bed,  chewing  gum 
and  reading  the  department-store  advertisements 
in  the  paper,  their  hair  in  curl-papers.  He  found 
fat  women  hanging  out  of  windows,  their  dishes 
unwashed,  their  beds  unmade,  their  floors  un- 
swept.  He  found  men  sick  in  bed,  and  managed 
to  sit  down  at  their  side  and  give  them  an  inter- 
esting twenty  minutes.  He  found  other  men, 
out  of  work,  smoking  and  reading.  He  found 
one  Italian  family  making  "willow  plumes"  in 
two  narrow  rooms — one  a  bedroom,  the  other  a 
kitchen — every  one  at  work,  twisting  the  strands 
of  feathers  to  make  a  swaying  plume — every  one, 
including  the  grandmother  and  little  dirty  tots 
of  four  and  six — and  every  one  of  them  cross- 
eyed as  a  result  of  the  terrific  work.  He  found 
one  dark  cellar  full  of  girls  twisting  flowers ;  and 
one  attic  where,  in  foul,  steaming  air,  a  Jewish 
family  were  "finishing"  garments — the  whole 
place  stacked  with  huge  bundles  which  had  been 
given  out  to  them  by  the  manufacturer.  He 
found  one  home  where  an  Italian  "count"  was 
the  husband  of  an  Irish  girl,  and  the  girl  told  him 
how  she  had  been  led  into  the  marriage  by  the 
man's  promise  of  title  and  castle  in  Venice,  only 
to  bring  her  from  Chicago  to  New  York  and  con- 
fess that  he  was  a  poor  laborer. 

156 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

1 '  But  I  made  the  best  of  it, ' '  she  cried.  ' '  I  put 
down  my  foot,  hustled  him  out  to  work,  and 
we've  done  well  ever  since.  I've  been  knocking 
the  dago  out  of  him  as  hard  as  I  can  hit!" 

"You're  ambitious,"  said  Joe. 

"My!   I'd  give  my  hands  for  education!" 

Joe  prescribed  The  Nine-Tenths. 

Everywhere  he  invited  people  to  call — "drop 
over" — and  see  his  plant  and  meet  his  mother. 
Even  the  strange  specimen  of  white  woman  who 
had  married  a  negro  and  was  proud  of  it. 

"Daniel's  black  outside,  but  there's  many 
stuck-up  women  I  know  whose  white  man  is 
black  inside.'1 

Absorbingly  interesting  was  the  quest — open- 
ing up  one  vista  of  life  after  another.  Joe  gained 
a  moving-picture  knowledge  of  life — saw  flashed 
before  him  dramatic  scene  after  scene,  destiny 
after  destiny — squalor,  ignorance,  crime,  neat- 
ness, ambition,  thrift,  respectability.  He  never 
forgot  the  shabby  dark  back  room  where  under 
gas-light  a  frail,  fine  woman  was  sewing  cease- 
lessly, one  child  sick  in  a  tumble-down  bed,  and 
two  others  playing  on  the  floor. 

"I'm  all  alone  in  the  world,"  she  said.  "And 
all  I  make  is  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year 
— less  than  five  dollars  a  week  —  to  keep  four 
people." 

Joe  put  her  on  the  free  list. 

He  learned  many  facts,  vital  elements  in  his 
history. 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

For  instance,  that  on  less  than  eight  hundred 
dollars  a  year  no  family  of  five  (the  average 
family)  could  live  decently,  and  that  nearly  half 
the  people  he  met  had  less,  and  the  rest  not  much 
more.  That,  as  a  rule,  there  were  three  rooms 
for  five  people;  and  many  of  the  families  gath- 
ered their  fuel  on  the  street;  that  many  had  no 
gas — used  oil  and  wood;  that  many  families 
spent  about  twenty-five  cents  a  day  for  food; 
that  few  clothes  were  bought,  and  these  mainly 
from  the  instalment  man  and  second  hand  at 
that;  that  many  were  recipients  of  help;  and 
that  recreation  and  education  were  everywhere 
reduced  to  the  lowest  terms.  That  is,  boys  and 
girls  were  hustled  to  work  at  twelve  by  giving 
their  age  as  fourteen,  and  recreation  meant  an 
outing  a  year  to  Coney  Island,  and  beer,  and, 
once  in  a  while,  the  nickel  theater;  that  there 
were  practically  no  savings.  And  there  was  one 
conclusion  he  could  not  evade — namely,  that 
while  overcrowding,  improvidence,  extrava- 
gance, and  vice  explained  the  misery  of  some 
families,  yet  there  were  limits.  For  instance: 

On  Manhattan  Island  no  adequate  housing  can 
be  obtained  at  less  than  twelve  or  fourteen  dol- 
lars a  month. 

That  there  is  no  health  in  a  diet  of  bread  and 
tea. 

That — curious  facts ! — coal  burns  up,  coats  and 
shoes  wear  out  in  spite  of  mending. 

That  the  average  housewife  cannot  take  time 
158 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

to  go  bargain-hunting  or  experimenting  with  new 
food  combinations,  or  in  making  or  mending  gar- 
ments, and  neither  has  she  the  ability  nor  train- 
ing to  do  so. 

That,  in  fact,  the  poor,  largely  speaking,  were 
between  the  upper  and  nether  millstones  of  low 
wages  and  high  prices. 

Of  course  there  was  the  vice,  but  while  drink 
causes  poverty,  poverty  causes  drink.  Joe  found 
intemperance  among  women;  he  found  little 
children  running  to  the  saloon  for  cans  of  beer; 
he  found  plenty  of  men  drunkards.  But  what 
things  to  offset  these!  The  woman  who  bought 
three  bushels  of  coal  a  week  for  seventy-five 
cents,  watched  her  fires,  picked  out  the  half- 
burned  pieces,  reused  them,  and  wasted  no  heat; 
the  children  foraging  the  streets  for  kindling- 
wood  ;  the  family  in  bed  to  keep  warm ;  the  wife 
whose  husband  had  pawned  her  wedding-ring 
for  drink,  and  who  had  bought  a  ten-cent  brass 
one,  "to  keep  the  respect  of  her  children";  the 
man  working  for  ten  dollars  a  week,  who  once 
had  owned  his  own  saloon,  but,  so  he  said,  "it 
was  impossible  to  make  money  out  of  a  saloon 
unless  I  put  in  gambling- machines  or  women,  and 
I  wouldn't  stand  for  it";  the  woman  whose  hus- 
band was  a  drunkard,  and  who,  therefore,  went 
to  the  Battery  5  A.M.  to  10,  then  5  P.M.  to  7, 
every  day  to  do  scrubbing  for  twenty  dollars  a 
month;  the  wonderful  Jewish  family  whose  in- 
come was  seven  hundred  and  ninety-seven  dol- 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

lars  and  who  yet  contrived  to  save  one  hundred 
and  twenty-three  dollars  a  year  to  later  send 
their  two  boys  to  Columbia  University. 

And  everywhere  he  found  the  miracle  of 
miracles:  the  spirit  of  charity  and  mutual  help- 
fulness— the  poor  aiding  the  poorer;  the  exqui- 
site devotion  of  mothers  to  children ;  the  courage 
that  braved  a  terrible  life. 

For  a  week  the  canvass  went  on.  Joe  worked 
feverishly,  and  came  home  late  at  night  too  tired 
almost  to  undress  himself.  Again  and  again  he 
exclaimed  to  his  mother: 

"I  never  dreamed  of  such  things!  I  never 
dreamed  of  such1  poverty!  I  never  dreamed  of 
such  human  nature!" 

Greenwich  Village,  hitherto  a  shabby  red  clut- 
ter of  streets,  uninviting,  forbidding,  dull,  squal- 
id, became  for  Joe  the  very  swarm  and  drama 
and  warm-blooded  life  of  humanity.  He  began 
to  sense  the  fact  that  he  was  in  the  center  of  a 
human  whirlpool,  in  the  center 'of  beauty  and 
ugliness,  love  and  bitterness,  misery  and  joy. 
The  whole  neighborhood  began  to  palpitate  for 
him;  the  stone  walls  seemed  bloody  with  strug- 
gling souls;  the  pavements  stamped  with  the 
steps  of  a  battle. 

"What  can  I  do,"  he  kept  thinking,  "with 
these  people?" 

And  to  his  amazement  he  began  to  see  that  just 
as  up-town  offered  the  rivals  of  luxury,  pleasure, 
and  ease,  so  down-town  offered  the  rivals  of  in- 

160 


OTHERS:    AND  SALLY   HEFFER 

temperance,  grinding  poverty,  ignorance.  His 
theories  were  beginning  to  meet  the  shock  of 
facts. 

''How  move  them?  How  touch  them  off?" 
he  asked  himself. 

But  the  absorbing  interest — the  faces — the 
shadowy  scenes  —  the  gas-lit  interiors  —  every- 
where human  beings,  everywhere  life,  packed, 
crowded,  evolving. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  stopped,  though  the 
fever  was  still  on  him.  He  had  gained  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  subscribers;  he  had  distributed 
twelve  hundred  copies  of  the  paper.  He  now 
felt  that  he  could  delay  no  longer  in  bringing  out 
the  next  number.  So  he  sat  down,  and,  with 
Sally  Heffer's  words  ringing  in  his  mind,  he 
wrote  his  famous  editorial,  "It  is  the  Women": 

It  is  the  women  who  bear  the  burden  of  this  world — 
the  poor  women.  Perhaps  they  have  beauty  when 
they  marry.  Then  they  plunge  into  drudgery.  All 
day  and  night  they  are  in  dark  and  damp  rooms,  scrub- 
bing, washing,  cooking,  cleaning,  sewing.  They  wear 
the  cheapest  clothes — thin  calico  wrappers.  They 
take  their  husbands'  thin  pay-envelopes,  and  manage 
the  finances.  They  stint  and  save — they  buy  one 
carrot  at  a  time,  one  egg.  When  rent- week  comes — 
and  it  comes  twice  a  month — they  cut  the  food  by  half 
to  pay  for  housing.  They  are  underfed,  they  are 
denied  everything  but  toil — save  love.  Child  after 
child  they  bear.  The  toil  increases,  the  stint  is  sharper, 
the  worry  infinite.  Now  they  must  clothe  their  chil- 
dren, feed  them,  dress  them,  wash  them,  amuse  them. 
They  must  endure  the  heart-sickness  of  seeing  a  child 
"  161 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

underfed.  They  must  fight  the  demons  of  disease. 
Possibly  they  must  stop  a  moment  in  the  speed  of  their 
labor  and  face  death.  Only  for  a  moment!  Need 
calls  them:  mouths  ask  for  food,  floors  for  the  broom, 
and  the  pay-envelope  for  keen  reckonings.  Possibly 
then  the  husband  will  begin  to  drink — possibly  he  will 
come  home  and  beat  his  wife,  drag  her  about  the  floor, 
blacken  her  eyes,  break  a  rib.  The  next  day  the  task 
is  taken  up  again — the  man  is  fed,  the  children  clothed, 
the  food  marketed,  the  floor  scrubbed,  the  dress  sewn. 
And  then  as  the  family  grows  there  come  hard  times. 
The  man  is  out  of  work — he  wants  to  work  but  cannot. 
Rent  and  the  butcher  and  grocer  must  be  paid,  but 
there  are  no  wages  brought  home.  The  woman  takes 
in  washing.  She  goes  through  the  streets  to-  the  more 
prosperous  and  drags  home  a  basket  of  soiled  clothes. 
The  burden  of  life  grows  heavier — the  husband  becomes 
accustomed  to  the  changed  relationships.  Very  often 
he  ceases  to  be  a  wage-earner  and  loafs  about  saloons. 
From  then  on  the  woman  wrestles  with  worlds  of 
trouble — unimaginable  difficulties.  Truly,  running  a 
state  may  be  easier  than  running  a  family.  And  yet 
the  woman  toils  on;  she  does  not  complain;  she  sets 
three  meals  each  day  before  husband  and  children; 
she  sees  that  they  have  clothes;  she  gives  the  man 
his  drink  money;  she  endures  his  cruelty;  she  plans 
ambitiously  for  her  children.  Or  possibly  the  man  be- 
gins to  work  again,  and  then  one  day  is  killed  in  an 
accident.  There  is  danger  of  the  family  breaking  up. 
But  the  woman  rises  to  the  crisis  and  works  miracles. 
She  keeps  her  head;  she  takes  charge;  she  toils  late 
into  the  night;  she  goes  without  food,  without  sleep. 
Somehow  she  manages.  There  was  a  seamstress  in 
Greenwich  Village  who  pulled  her  family  of  three  and 
herself  along  on  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  year — 
less  than  five  dollars  a  week ! 

If  luck  is  with  the  woman  the  children  grow  up,  go  to 
162 


OTHERS:   AND  SALLY  HEFFER 

work,  and  for  a  time  ease  the  burden.  But  then,  what 
is  left?  The  woman  is  prematurely  old — her  hair  is 
gray,  her  face  drawn  and  wrinkled,  or  flabby  and 
soiled,  her  back  bent,  her  hands  raw  and  red  and  big. 
Beauty  has  gone,  and  with  the  years  of  drudgery,  much 
of  the  over-glory,  much  of  the  finer  elements  of  love 
and  joy,  have  vanished.  Her  mind  is  absorbed  by 
little  things — details  of  the  day.  She  has  ceased  to 
attend  church,  she  has  not  stepped  beyond  the  street 
corner  for  years,  she  has  not  read  or  played  or  rested. 
Much  is  dead  in  her.  Love  only  is  left.  Love  of  a  man, 
love  of  children.  She  is  a  fierce  mother  and  wife,  as  of 
old.  And  she  knows  the  depth  of  sorrow  and  the  truth 
of  pain. 

He  repeated  his  programme.  Perhaps — he  af- 
terward thought  so  himself — this  editorial  was  a 
bit  too  pessimistic.  But  he  had  to  write  it — had 
to  ease  his  soul.  He  set  it  off,  however,  by  a 
lovely  little  paragraph  which  he  printed  boxed. 
Here  it  is : 

Possibly  much  of  the  laughter  heard  on  this  planet 
comes  from  the  mothers  and  fathers  who  are  thinking 
or  talking  of  the  children. 

In  this  way,  then,  Joe  entered  into  the  life  of 
the  people. 


IV 

OTHERS  I  AND  THEODORE  MARRIN 

TOE  became  a  familiar  figure  in  Greenwich 
J  Village.  As  time  went  on,  and  issue  after 
issue  of  The  Nine-Tenths  appeared,  he  became 
known  to  the  whole  district.  Whenever  he 
went  out  people  nodded  right  and  left,  passed 
the  time  of  day  with  him,  or  stopped  him  for  a 
hand-shake  and  a  question.  He  would,  when 
matters  were  not  pressing,  pause  at  a  stoop  to 
speak  with  mothers,  and  people  in  trouble  soon 
began  to  acquire  a  habit  of  dropping  in  at  his 
office  to  talk  things  over  with  the  "Old  Man." 

If  it  was  a  matter  of  employment,  he  turned 
the  case  over  to  some  member  of  the  Stove 
Circle;  if  it  was  a  question  of  honest  want,  he 
drew  on  the  "sinking-fund"  and  took  a  note 
payable  in  sixty  days — a  most  elastic  note, 
always  secretly  renewable;  if  it  was  an  idle 
beggar,  a  vagrant,  he  made  short  work  of  his 
visitor.  Such  a  visitor  was  Lady  Hickory. 
Billy  was  at  his  little  table  next  the  door;  over 
in  the  corner  the  still-despondent  Slate  was  still 
collapsing;  at  the  east  window  sat  Editor  Sally 
Heffer,  digging  into  a  mass  of  notes;  and  near 

164 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

the  west,  at  the  roll-top  desk,  a  visitor's  chair 
set  out  invitingly  beside  him,  Joe  was  writing — 
a  weird  exercise  of  muttering  softly,  so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  rest,  and  then  scratching  down  a 
sentence. 

Billy  leaped  up  to  receive  her  ladyship,  who 
fatly  rolled  in,  her  tarnished  hat  askew,  her  torn 
thrice-dingy  silks  clutched  up  in  one  fat  hand. 

Lady  Hickory  gave  one  cry : 

"There  he  is!" 

She  pushed  Billy  aside  and  rolled  over  into 
the  visitor's  chair. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Joe!" 

Joe  turned. 

"What's  up?"  he  asked. 

"Everything's  up — I'm  dying,  Mr.  Joe — I 
need  help — I  must  get  to  the  hospital — " 

"Sick?" 

' '  Gallopin'  consumption !' ' 

Joe  sniffed. 

"It  doesn't  smell  like  consumption,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh.  ' '  It  smells  like  rum !" 

He  hustled  her  out  rather  roughly,  Nathan 
Slate  regarding  him  with  mournful  round  eyes. 
Twenty  minutes  later  Nathan  came  over  and 
sat  down. 

"Mr.  Joe." 

"Yes,  Nathan." 

"There's  something  troubles  my  conscience, 
Mr.  Joe." 

"Let  her  rip!" 

165 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

-Mr.  Joe—" 

" I'm  waiting!" 

Nathan  cleared  his  throat. 

"You  say  you're  a  democrat,  Mr.  Joe,  and 
you're  always  saying,  'Love  thy  neighbor,'  Mr. 
Joe." 

"Has  that  hit  you,  Nathan?" 

Nathan  unburdened,  evading  this  thrust. 

"Why,  then,  Mr.  Joe,  did  you  turn  that  woman 
away?" 

Joe  was  delighted. 

"Why?  I'll  tell  you!  Suppose  that  I  know 
that  the  cucumber  is  inherently  as  good  as  any 
other  vegetable,  does  that  say  I  can  digest  it? 
Cucumbers  aren't  for  me,  Nathan — especially 
decayed  ones." 

Nathan  stared  at  him  disconsolately,  shook 
his  head,  and  went  back  to  puzzle  it  out.  It  is 
doubtful,  however,  that  he  ever  did  so. 

Besides  such  visitors,  there  were  still  others 
who  came  to  him  to  arbitrate  family  disputes — 
which  constituted  him  a  sort  of  Domestic  Re- 
lations Court — and  gave  him  an  insight  into  a 
condition  that  surprised  him.  Namely,  the  not 
uncommon  cases  of  secret  polygamy  and  poly- 
andry. 

In  short,  Joe  was  busy.  His  work  was  estab- 
lished in  a  flexible  routine — mornings  for  writing ; 
afternoons  for  callers,  for  circulation  work,  and 
for  special  trips  to  centers  of  labor  trouble ;  eve- 
nings for  going  about  with  Giotto  to  see  the  Ital- 

166 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

ians,  or  paying  a  visit,  say,  to  the  Ranns,  or  some 
others,  or  meeting  at  Latsky's  cigar  store  with  a 
group  of  revolutionists  who  filled  the  air  with 
their  war  of  the  classes,  their  socialist  state,  their 
dreams  of  millennium. 

He  gave  time,  too,  to  his  mother — evening 
walks,  evening  talks,  and  old-fashioned  quiet 
hours  in  the  kitchen,  his  mother  at  her  needle- 
work, and  he  reading  beside  her.  One  such 
night,  when  his  mother  seemed  somewhat  fa- 
tigued, he  said  to  her : 

11  Don't  sew  any  more,  mother.'* 

"But  it  soothes  me,  Joe." 

"Mother!" 

"Yes." 

Joe  spoke  awkwardly. 

"Are  you  perfectly  satisfied  down  here?  Did 
we  do  the  right  thing  ?" 

His  mother's  eyes  flashed,  as  of  old. 

"We  did,"  she  cried  in  her  youthful  voice. 
"It's  real — it's  absorbing.  And  I'm  very  proud 
of  myself." 

"Proud?     You?" 

"Yes,  proud!"  she  laughed.  "Joe,  when  a 
woman  reaches  my  age  she  has  a  right  to  be 
proud  if  young  folks  seek  her  out  and  talk  with 
her  and  make  her  their  confidante.  It  shows 
she's  not  a  useless  incumbrance,  but  young!" 

Joe  sat  up. 

"Have  they  found  you  out?  Do  they  come 
to  you?" 

167 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

''They  do — especially  the  young  wives  with 
their  troubles.  All  of  them  troubled  over  their 
husbands  and  their  children.  We  have  the 
finest  talks  together.  They're  a  splendid  lot !" 

"Who's  come,  in  particular?" 

"Well,  there's  one  who  isn't  married — one  of 
the  best  of  them." 

"Not  Sally  Heffer!" 

"The  same!" 

"I'm  dinged!" 

"That  girl,"  said  Joe's  mother,  "has  all  sorts 
of  possibilities — and  she's  brave  and  strong  and 
true.  Sally's  a  wonder!  a  new  kind  of  woman !" 

A  new  kind  of  woman !  Joe  remembered  the 
phrase,  and  in  the  end  admitted  that  it  was  true. 
Sally  was  of  the  new  breed;  she  represented  the 
new  emancipation;  the  exodus  of  woman  from 
the  home  to  the  battle-fields  of  the  world;  the 
willingness  to  fight  in  the  open,  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der with  men;  the  advance  of  a  sex  that  now 
demanded  a  broader,  freer  life,  a  new  health,  a 
home  built  up  on  comradeship  and  economic  free- 
dom. In  all  of  these  things  she  contrasted 
sharply  with  Myra,  and  Joe  always  thought  of 
the  two  together. 

But  unconsciously  Sally  was  always  the  fellow- 
worker — Myra — what  Myra  meant  he  could  feel 
but  not  explain;  yet  these  crowded  days  left 
little  time  for  thoughts  sweet  but  often  intense 
with  pain.  He  wrote  to  her  rarely — mere  jot- 
tings of  business  and  health;  he  rarely  heard 

168 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

from  her.  Her  message  was  invariably  the 
same — the  richness  and  quiet  of  country  life, 
the  depth  and  peace  of  rest,  the  hope  that  he  was 
well  and  happy.  She  never  mentioned  his  paper 
—though  she  received  every  number — and  when 
Joe  inquired  once  whether  it  came,  she  answered 
in  a  postscript :  ' '  The  paper  ?  It's  in  every  Mon- 
day's mail."  This  neglect  irritated  Joe,  and  he 
would  doubly  enjoy  Sally's  heart-and-soul  pas- 
sion for  The  Nine-Tenths. 

Sally  was  growing  into  his  working  life,  day  by 
day.  Her  presence  was  stimulating,  refreshing. 
If  he  felt  blue  and  discouraged,  or  dried  up  and  in 
want  of  inspiration,  he  merely  called  her  over, 
and  her  quiet  talk,  her  sane  views,  her  quick 
thinking,  her  naver-failing  good  humor  and 
faith,  acted  upon  him  as  a  tonic. 

"Miss  Sally,"  he  said  once,  "what  would  I  ever 
do  without  you?" 

Sally  looked  at  him  with  her  clear  eyes. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  guess  you'd  manage  to 
stagger  along  somehow." 

But  after  that  she  hovered  about  him  like  a 
guardian  angel.  What  bothered  her  chiefly,  when 
she  thought  of  Joe's  work,  was  her  lack  of  educa- 
tion, and  she  set  about  to  make  this  up  by  good 
reading,  and  by  attending  lectures  at  night,  and 
by  hard  study  in  such  time  as  she  could  snatch 
from  her  work.  She  and  Joe  were  comrades  in 
the  best  sense.  They  could  always  depend  upon 
each  other.  It  was  in  some  ways  as  if  they  were 

169 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

in  partnership.  And  then  there  was  that  old  tie 
of  the  fire  to  draw  them  together. 

She  was  of  great  help  in  setting  him  right 
about  the  poor. 

"People  are  happy,"  she  would  say — "most 
people  are  happy.  Human  nature  is  bigger 
than  environment — it  bubbles  up  through  mud. 
That's  almost  the  trouble  with  it.  If  the  poor 
were  only  thoroughly  unhappy,  they'd  change 
things  to-morrow.  No,  Mr.  Joe,  it's  not  a  ques- 
tion of  happiness;  it's  a  question  of  justice,  of 
right,  of  progress,  of  developing  people's  possi- 
bilities. It's  all  the  question  of  a  better  life,  a 
richer  life.  People  are  sacred — they  mustn't  be 
reduced  to  animals. " 

And  with  her  aid  he  gained  a  truer  perspective 
of  the  life  about  him — learned  better  how  to  touch 
it,  how  to  "work"  it.  The  paper  became  more 
and  more  adapted  to  its  audience,  and  began  to 
spread  rapidly.  Here  and  there  a  labor  union 
would  subscribe  for  it  in  bulk  for  all  its  mem- 
bers, and  the  Stove  Circle  soon  had  many  a  raw  re- 
cruit drumming  up  trade,  making  house-to-house 
canvasses.  In  this  way,  the  circulation  finally 
reached  the  five-thousand  mark.  There  were 
certain  unions,  such  as  that  of  the  cloak-makers, 
that  regarded  the  paper  as  their  special  oracle — 
swore  by  it,  used  it  in  their  arguments,  made  it  a 
vital  part  of  their  mental  life. 

This  enlarged  circulation  brought  some  cu- 
rious and  unlooked-for  results.  Some  of  the 

170 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRlN 

magazine  writers  in  the  district  got  hold  of  a 
copy,  had  a  peep  at  Joe,  heard  of  his  fame,  and 
then  took  copies  up-town  to  the  respectable 
editors  and  others,  and  spread  a  rumor  of  ' '  that 
idiot,  Joe  Blaine,  who  runs  an  underground  paper 
down  on  Tenth  Street."  As  a  passion  of  the 
day  was  slumming,  and  as  nothing  could  be  more 
piquant  than  the  West  Tenth  Street  establish- 
ment, Joe  was  amused  to  find  automobiles  draw- 
ing up  at  his  door,  and  the  whole  neighborhood 
watching  breathlessly  the  attack  of  some  flouncy 
woman  or  some  tailor-made  man. 

"How  perfectly  lovely!"  one  fair  visitor  an- 
nounced, while  the  office  force  watched  her  pose 
in  the  center  of  the  room.  "Mr.  Blaine,  how 
dreadful  it  must  be  to  live  with  the  poor!" 

"It's  pretty  hard,"  said  Joe,  "to  live  with  any 
human  being  for  any  length  of  time." 

"Oh,  but  the  poor!  They  aren't  clean,  you 
know;  and  such  manners!" 

Sally  spoke  coldly. 

"I  guess  bad  manners  aren't  monopolized  by 
any  particular  class." 

The  flouncy  one  flounced  out. 

These  visits  finally  became  very  obnoxious, 
though  they  could  not  be  stopped.  Even  a  sign, 
over  the  door-bell,  "No  begging;  no  slumming," 
was  quite  ineffective  in  shutting  out  either 
class. 

There  were,  however,  other  visitors  of  a  more 
interesting  type — professional  men,  even  business 

171 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

men,  who  were  drawn  by  curiosity,  or  by  social 
unrest,  or  by  an  ardent  desire  to  be  convinced. 
Professor  Harraman,  the  sociologist,  came,  and 
made  quite  a  dispassionate  study  of  Joe,  put  him 
(so  he  told  his  mother)  on  the  dissecting-table 
and  vivisected  his  social  organs.  Then  there  was 
Blakesly,  the  corporation  lawyer,  who  enjoyed 
the  discussion  that  arose  so  thoroughly  that  he 
stayed  for  supper  and  behaved  like  a  gentleman 
in  the  little  kitchen,  even  insisting  on  throwing 
off  his  coat,  rolling  up  his  sleeves,  and  helping  to 
dry  the  dishes. 

"You're  all  wrong,"  he  told  Joe  when  he  left, 
"and  some  day  possibly  we'll  hang  you  or  electro- 
cute you;  but  it's  refreshing  to  rub  one's  mind 
against  a  going  dynamo.  I'm  coming  again. 
And  don't  forget  that  your  mother  is  the  First 
Lady  of  the  Island !  Good-by !' ' 

Then  there  was,  one  important  day,  the  great 
ex-trust  man,  whose  name  is  inscribed  on  granite 
buildings  over  half  the  earth.  This  man — so  the 
legend  runs — is  on  the  lookout  for  unusual  per- 
sonalities. The  first  hint  of  a  new  one  puts  him 
on  the  trail,  and  he  sends  out  a  detective  to 
gather  facts,  all  of  which  are  card-indexed  under 
the  personality's  name.  Then,  if  the  report  is 
attractive,  this  man  goes  out  himself  and  meets 
the  oddity  face  to  face.  He  came  in  on  Joe 
jovial,  happy,  sparkling,  and  fired  a  broadside  of 
well-chosen  questions.  Joe  was  delighted,  and 
said  anything  he  pleased,  and  his  visitor  shrewdly 

172 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

went  on.  In  the  end  Joe  was  stunned  to  hear 
this  comment: 

"Mr.  Elaine,  you're  on  the  right  track,  though 
you  don't  know  it.  You  think  you  want  one 
thing,  but  you're  after  another.  Still — keep  it 
up.  The  world  is  coming  to  wonderful  things." 

"That's  queer  talk,"  said  Joe,  "coming  from  a 
multimillionaire. ' ' 

The  multimillionaire  laughed. 

"But  I'm  getting  rid  of  the  multi,  Mr.  Blaine. 
What  more  would  you  have  me  do?  Each  his 
own  way.  Besides" — he  screwed  up  his  eye 
shrewdly — "come  now,  aren't  you  hanging  on 
to  some  capital?" 

"Yes — in  a  way!" 

"So  are  we  all!  You're  a  wise  man!  Keep 
free,  and  then  you  can  help  others!" 

The  most  interesting  caller,  however,  judged 
from  the  standpoint  of  Joe's  life,  was  Theodore 
Marrin,  Izon's  boss,  manufacturer  of  high-class 
shirtwaists,  whose  Fifth  Avenue  store  is  one  of 
the  most  luxurious  in  New  York.  He  came  to 
Joe  while  the  great  cloak-makers'  strike  was  still 
on,  at  a  time  when  families  were  reduced  almost 
to  starvation,  and  when  the  cause  seemed  quite 
hopeless. 

Theodore  Marrin  came  in  a  beautiful  heavy 
automobile.  He  was  a  short  man,  with  a  stout 
stomach;  his  face  was  a  deep  red,  with  large, 
slightly  bulging  black  eyes,  tiny  mustache  over 
his  full  lips;  and  he  was  dressed  immaculately 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

and  in  good  taste — a  sort  of  Parisian-New  Yorker, 
hail-fellow-well-met,  a  mixer,  a  cynic,  a  man 
about  town.  He  swung  his  cane  lightly  as  he 
tripped  up  the  steps,  sniffed  the  air,  and  knocked 
on  the  door  of  the  editorial  office. 

Billy  opened. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Mr.  Elaine  in?" 

"He's  busy." 

"I  should  hope  he  was!  There,  my  boy." 
He  deftly  waved  Billy  aside  and  stepped  in. 
"Well!  well!  Mr.  Blaine!" 

Joe  turned  about,  and  arose,  and  accepted  Mr. 
Marrin 's  extended  hand. 

' '  Who  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

Joe  smiled. 

"I'm  ready  for  anything." 

"Well,  Mr.  Blaine,  I'm  the  employer  of  one  of 
your  men.  You  know  Jacob  Izon  ?" 

"Oh,  you're  Mr.  Marrin!     Sit  down." 

Marrin  gazed  about. 

"Unique!  unique!"  He  sat  down,  and  pulled 
off  his  gloves.  "I've  been  wanting  to  meet  you 
for  a  long  time.  Izon's  been  talking,  handing 
me  your  paper.  It's  a  delightful  little  sheet — I 
enjoy  it  immensely." 

"You  agree  with  its  views?" 

"Oh  no,  no,  no!  I  read  it  the  way  I  read  fic- 
tion! It's  damned  interesting!" 

Joe  laughed. 

"Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 
174 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

"What  can  I  do  for  you!"  corrected  Marrin. 
''See  here,  Mr.  Elaine,  I'm  interested.  How 
about  taking  a  little  ad.  from  me,  just  for  fun,  to 
help  the  game  along?" 

"We  don't  accept  ads." 

"Oh,  I  know!  But  if  I  contribute  hand- 
somely! I'd  like  to  show  it  around  to  my  friends 
a  bit.  Come,  come,  don't  be  unreasonable,  Mr. 
Elaine." 

Sally  shuffled  about,  coughed,  arose,  sat  down 
again,  and  Joe  laughed. 

"Can't  do  it.  Not  even  Rockefeller  could  buy 
a  line  of  my  paper." 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 

"Absolutely— flatly." 

"Well,  what  a  shame!  But  never  mind. 
Some  other  time.  Tell  me,  Mr.  Elaine" — he 
leaned  forward — "what  are  you?  One  of  these 
bloody  socialists?" 

"No,  I'm  not  a  socialist." 

"What  d'ye  call  yourself,  then — Republican  ?" 

"No." 

"Democrat?" 

"No." 

"Insurgent?" 

"No." 

Marrin  was  horror-stricken. 

"Not  a  blooming  anarchist?" 

Joe  laughed. 

"No,  not  an  anarchist." 

'  '  What  are  you,  then  ?     Nothing  ?" 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I  can  tell  you  what  I'm  not,"  said  Joe. 

"What?" 

"I'm  not  any  kind  of  an  ist." 

"A  fine  fellow!"  cried  Marrin.  "Why,  a 
man's  got  to  stand  for  something." 

"I  do,"  said  Joe,  "I  stand  for  human  beings — 
and  sometimes,"  he  chuckled,  "I  stand  for  a 
whole  lot!" 

Marrin  laughed,  so  did  Sally. 

"Clever!"  cried  Marrin.  "Damned  clever! 
You're  cleverer  than  I  thought — hide  your 
scheme  up,  don't  you?  Well!  well!  Let  me  see 
your  plant!" 

Joe  showed  him  about,  and  Marrin  kept  patting 
him  on  the  back:  "Delightful!  Fine!  You're 
my  style,  Mr.  Elaine — everything  done  to  a 
nicety,  no  frills  and  feathers.  Isn't  New  York 
a  great  town  ?  There  are  things  happening  in  it 
you'd  never  dream  of." 

And  when  he  left  he  said : 

"Now,  if  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  you, 
Mr.  Elaine,  don't  hesitate  to  call  on  me.  And 
say,  step  up  and  see  my  shop.  It's  the  finest 
this  side  of  Paris.  I'll  show  you  something 
you've  never  seen  yet!  Good-by!" 

And  he  was  whisked  away,  a  quite  self-satis- 
fied human  being. 

That  very  evening  Marrin's  name  came  up 
again.  It  was  closing-up  time,  Billy  and  Slate 
had  already  gone,  and  the  room  was  dark  save  for 
the  shaded  lights  over  Joe's  desk  and  Sally's 

176 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

table.  The  two  were  working  quietly,  and  out- 
side a  soft  fall  of  snow  was  muffling  the  noise  of 
the  city.  There  only  arose  the  mellowed  thun- 
der of  a  passing  car,  the  far  blowing  of  a  boat- 
whistle,  the  thin  pulse  of  voices.  Otherwise  the 
city  was  lost  in  the  beautiful  storm,  which  went 
over  the  gas-lamps  like  a  black-dotted  halo.  In 
the  rear  room  there  was  a  soft  clatter  of  dishes. 
The  silence  was  rich  and  full  of  thought.  Joe 
scratched  on,  Sally  puzzled  over  reports. 

Then  softly  the  door  opened,  and  a  hoarse 
voice  said: 

"Joe?     You  there?" 

Sally  and  Joe  turned  around.  It  was  Izon, 
dark,  handsome,  fiery,  muffled  up  to  his  neck, 
his  hat  drawn  low  on  his  face,  and  the  thin  snow 
scattering  from  his  shoulders  and  sleeves. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  Joe  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"What  is  it?" 

Izon  came  over. 

"Joe!" — his  voice  was  passionate — "there's 
trouble  brewing  at  Marrin's." 

' '  Marrin  ?     Why,  he  was  here  only  to-day !' ' 

Izon  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair  and  leaned 
over. 

"Marrin  is  a  dirty  scoundrel!" 

His  voice  was  hoarse  with  helplessness  and 
passion. 

Joe  rose. 

' '  Tell  me  about  this !     Put  it  in  a  word !' ' 

Tears  sprang  to  Izon's  eyes. 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"You  know  the  cloak-makers'  strike — well! 
Some  manufacturer  has  asked  Marrin  to  help 
him  out — to  fill  an  order  of  cloaks  for  him." 

' '  And  Marrin — ' '     Joe  felt  himself  getting  hot. 

"Has  given  the  job  to  us  men." 

"How  many  are  there?" 

"Forty-five." 

"And  the  women?" 

"They're  busy  on  shirtwaists/' 

"And  what  did  the  men  do?" 

"As  they  were  told." 

"So  you  fellows  are  cutting  under  the  strikers 
—you're  scabs." 

Izon  clutched  the  chair  harder. 

"I  told  them  so — I  said,  'For  God's  sake,  be 
men — strike,  if  this  isn't  stopped.' " 

"And  what  did  they  say?" 

"They'd  think  it  over!" 

Sally  arose  and  spoke  quietly. 

"Make  them  meet  here.     /'//  talk  to  them!" 

Izon  muttered  darkly: 

"Marrin's  a  dirty  scoundrel!" 

Joe  smote  his  hands  together. 

"We'll  fix  him.  You  get  the  men  down  here! 
You  just  get  the  men!" 

And  then  Joe  understood  that  his  work  was 
not  child's  play;  that  the  fight  was  man-size; 
that  it  had  its  dangers,  its  perils,  its  fierce  strug- 
gles. He  felt  a  new  power  rise  within  him — a 
warrior  strength.  He  was  ready  to  plunge  in 
and  give  battle — ready  for  a  hand-to-hand  con- 

178 


OTHERS:  AND  THEO.  MARRIN 

flict.  Now  he  was  to  be  tested  in  the  fires;  now 
he  was  to  meet  and  make  or  be  broken  by  a  great 
moment.  An  electricity  of  conflict  filled  the  air, 
a  foreboding  of  disaster.  His  theories  at  last 
were  to  meet  the  crucial  test  of  reality,  and  he 
realized  that  up  to  that  moment  he  had  been 
hardly  more  than  a  dreamer. 


• 


FORTY-FIVE   TREACHEROUS   MEN 

OUT  of  the  white,  frosty  street  the  next  night, 
when  every  lamp  up  and  down  shone  like  a 
starry  jewel  beneath  the  tingling  stars,  forty-five 
men  emerged,  crowding,  pushing  in  the  hall, 
wedging  through  the  doorway,  and  filling  the 
not-too-large  editorial  office.  Joe  had  provided 
camp-stools,  and  the  room  was  soon  packed  with 
sitting  and  standing  men,  circles  of  shadowy 
beings,  carelessly  clothed,  with  rough  black 
cheeks  and  dark  eyes — a  bunch  of  jabbering 
aliens,  excited,  unfriendly,  curious,  absorbed  in 
their  problem — an  ill-kempt  lot  and  quite  un- 
lovely. 

At  the  center  stove,  a  little  way  off  from  its 
red  heart,  sat  Joe  and  Sally  and  Izon.  The  men 
began  to  smoke  cigarettes  and  little  cigars,  and 
with  the  rank  tobacco  smell  was  mingled  the 
sweaty  human  odor.  The  room  grew  densely 
hot,  and  a  window  had  to  be  thrown  open.  A 
vapor  of  smoke  filled  the  atmosphere,  shot  golden 
with  the  lights,  and  in  the  smoke  the  many  heads, 
bent  this  way  and  that,  leaning  forward  or  tilted 
up,  showed  strange  and  a  little  unreal.  Joe 

1 80 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

could  see  faces  that  fascinated  him  by  their  vivid 
lines,  their  starting  dark  eyes  and  the  white  eye- 
balls, their  bulging  noses  and  big  mouths.  Hands 
fluttered  in  lively  gestures  and  a  storm  of  Yiddish 
words  broke  loose. 

Joe  arose,  lifting  his  hand  for  silence.  Men 
pulled  each  other  by  the  sleeve,  and  a  strident 
'"Ssh!"  ran  round  the  room. 

"Silence!"  cried  Joe.  His  voice  came  from 
the  depths  of  his  big  chest,  and  was  masterful, 
ringing  with  determination. 

An  expectant  hush  followed.  And  then  Joe 
spoke. 

"I  want  to  welcome  you  to  this  room.  It  be- 
longs to  you  as  much  as  to  anybody,  for  in  this 
room  is  published  a  paper  that  works  for  your 
good.  But  I  not  only  want  to  welcome  you: 
I  want  to  ask  your  permission  to  speak  at  this 
meeting." 

There  were  cries  of:  "Speak!  Go  on!  Say 
it!" 

Joe  went  on.     Behind  his  words  was  a  menace. 

"Then  I  want  to  say  this  to  you.  Your  boss, 
Mr.  Marrin,  has  done  a  cowardly  and  treacherous 
thing.  He  has  made  scabs  of  you  all.  You  are 
no  better  than  strike-breakers.  If  you  do  this 
work,  if  you  make  these  cloaks,  you  are  traitors 
to  your  fellow- workers,  the  cloak-makers.  You 
are  crippling  other  workmen.  You  are  selling 
them  to  their  bosses.  But  I'm  sure  you  won't 
stand  for  this.  You  are  men  enough  to  fight  for 

181 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

the  cause  of  all  working  people.  You  belong  to 
a  race  that  has  been  persecuted  through  the  ages, 
a  brave  race,  a  race  that  has  triumphed  through 
hunger  and  cold  and  massacres.  You  are  great 
enough  to  make  this  sacrifice.  If  this  is  so,  I 
call  on  you  to  resist  your  boss,  to  refuse  to  do  his 
dirty  work,  and  I  ask  you — if  he  persists  in  his 
orders — to  lay  down  your  work  and  strike" 

He  sat  down,  and  there  was  a  miserable  pause. 
He  had  not  stirred  them  at  all,  and  felt  his  failure 
keenly.  It  was  as  if  he  had  not  reached  over  the 
fence  of  race.  He  told  himself  he  must  school 
himself  in  the  future,  must  broaden  out.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  menace  in  his  tone  that 
hushed  the  meeting.  The  men  rather  feared 
what  lay  behind  Joe's  words. 

At  once,  however,  one  of  the  men  leaped  to  his 
feet,  and  began  a  fiery  speech  in  Yiddish,  speak- 
ing gaspingly,  passionately,  hotly,  shaking  his 
fist,  fluttering  his  hands,  tearing  a  passion  to 
tatters.  Joe  understood  not  a  word,  but  the 
burden  of  the  speech  was : 

' '  Why  should  we  strike  ?  What  for  ?  For  the 
cloak-makers  ?  What  have  we  to  do  with  cloak- 
makers?  We  have  troubles  enough  of  our  own. 
We  have  our  families  to  support — our  wives  and 
children  and  relations.  Shall  they  starve  for 
some  foolish  cloak  -  makers  ?  Comrades,  don't 
listen  to  such  humbug.  Do  your  work — get 
done  with  it.  You  have  good  jobs — don't  lose 
them.  These  revolutionists !  They  would  break 

182 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

up  the  whole  world  for  their  nonsense!  It's  not 
they  who  have  to  suffer;  it's  us  working  people. 
We  do  the  starving,  we  do  the  fighting.  Have 
sense;  bethink  yourselves;  don't  make  fools  out 
of  yourselves!" 

A  buzz  of  talk  arose  with  many  gesticulations. 

"He's  right!  Why  should  we  strike— Och, 
Gott,  such  nonsense! — No  more  strike  talk." 

Then  Sally  arose,  pale,  eyes  blazing.  She 
shook  a  stanch  little  fist  at  the  crowd.  But 
how  different  was  her  speech  from  the  one  in 
Carnegie  Hall — that  time  when  she  had  been 
truly  inspired. 

' ' Shame  on  all  of  you !  You're  a  lot  of  cowards ! 
You're  a  lot  of  traitors!  You  can't  think  of  any- 
thing but  your  bellies !  Shame  on  you  all !  Wo- 
men would  never  stand  for  such  things — young 
girls,  your  sisters  or  your  daughters,  would  strike 
at  once!  Let  me  tell  you  what  will  happen  to 
you.  Some  day  there  will  be  a  strike  of  shirt- 
waist-makers, and  then  your  boss  will  go  to  the 
cloak  -  house  and  say,  '  Now  you  make  shirt- 
waists for  me,'  and  the  cloak-makers  will  make 
the  shirtwaists,  saying,  'When  we  were  striking, 
the  shirtwaist -makers  made  cloaks;  now  we'll 
make  waists.'  And  that  will  ruin  your  strike, 
and  ruin  you  all.  Working  people  must  unite! 
Working  people  must  stand  by  each  other! 
That's  your  only  power.  The  boss  has  money, 
land,  machinery,  friends.  What  have  you? 
You  only  have  each  other,  and  if  you  don't  stand 

183 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

by  each  other,  you  have  nothing  at  all.  Strike! 
I  tell  you!  Strike  and  show  'em!  Show  'em! 
Rise  and  resist!  You  have  the  power!  You 
are  bound  to  win !  Strike !  I  tell  you !" 

Then  a  man  shouted :  ' '  Shall  a  woman  tell  us 
what  to  do?"  and  tumult  broke  loose,  angry 
arguments,  words  flying.  The  air  seemed  to 
tingle  with  excitement,  expectation,  and  that 
sharp  feeling  of  human  crisis.  Joe  could  feel  the 
circle  of  human  nature  fighting  about  him.  He 
leaned  forward,  strangely  shaken. 

Izon  had  arisen,  and  was  trying  to  speak. 
The  dark,  handsome  young  man  was  gesturing 
eloquently.  His  voice  poured  like  a  fire,  swept 
the  crowd,  and  he  reached  them  with  their  own 
language. 

"Comrades!  Comrades!  Comrades!"  and 
then  his  voice  rose  and  stilled  the  tumult,  and  all 
leaned  forward,  hanging  on  his  words.  "You 
must "  —  he  was  appealing  to  them  with  arms 
outstretched  —  ' '  you  must !  You  will  strike ; 
you  will  not  be  cowards!  Not  for  yourselves, 
O  comrades,  but  for  your  children — your  chil- 
dren! Do  I  not  know  you  ?  Do  I  not  know  how 
you  toil  and  slave  and  go  hungry  and  wear  out 
your  bodies  and  souls?  Have  I  not  toiled  with 
you?  Have  I  not  shared  your  struggles  and 
your  pain  ?  Do  I  not  know  that  you  are  doing 
all,  all  for  your  children — that  the  little  ones  may 
grow  up  to  a  better  life  than  yours — that  your 
little  ones  may  be  happier,  and  healthier,  and 

184 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

richer,  and  finer  ?  Have  I  not  seen  it  a  thousand 
times  ?  But  what  sort  of  a  world  will  your  chil- 
dren find  when  they  grow  up  if  you  do  not  fight 
these  battles  for  them?  If  you  let  the  bosses 
enslave  you — if  you  are  cowards  and  slaves — will 
not  your  children  be  slaves  ?  Oh,  we  that  belong 
to  Israel,  have  we  not  fought  for  freedom  these 
bloody  thousand  years?  Are  we  to  cease  now? 
Can't  you  see  ?  Can't  you  open  your  hearts  and 
minds?"  His  voice  came  with  a  passionate  sob. 
"Won't  you  see  that  this  is  a  fight  for  the  future 
— a  fight  for  all  who  work  for  wages — a  fight  for 
freedom  ?  Not  care  for  the  cloak-makers  ?  They 
are  your  brothers.  Care  for  them,  lest  the  day 
come  when  you  are  uncared  for!  Strike!  You 
must — you  must!  Strike,  comrades!  We  will 
hang  by  each  other!  We  will  suffer  together! 
And  it  will  not  be  the  first  time!  No,  not  the 
first  time — or  the  last!" 

He  sank  exhausted  on  his  chair,  crumpled  up. 
Sweat  was  running  down  his  white  face.  There 
was  a  moment's  hush — snuffling,  and  a  few 
coarse  sobs — and  then  a  young  man  arose,  and 
spoke  in  trembling  voice  : 

"I  move — we  send  Jacob  Izon  to-morrow  to 
our  boss — and  tell  him — either  no  cloaks,  or — 
we  strike!" 

"Second!     Second!" 

Joe  put  the  motion. 

"All  in  favor,  say  aye." 

There  was  a  wild  shout  of  ayes.     The  motion 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

was  carried.  Then  the  air  was  charged  with 
excitement,  with  fiery  talk,  with  denunciation 
and  ardor. 

"Now  we're  in  for  it!"  said  Joe,  as  the  room 
was  emptied,  and  the  aroused  groups  trudged 
east  on  the  crunching  snow. 

And  so  it  was.  Next  morning,  when  Theodore 
Marrin  made  the  rounds  of  the  vast  loft  where 
two  hundred  girls  and  forty-five  men  were  busily 
working — the  machines  racing — the  air  pulsing 
with  noise — Jacob  Izon  arose,  trembling,  and 
confronted  him. 

"Well,  Jacob!" 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Go  ahead." 

"The  men  have  asked  me  to  ask  you  not  to 
have  us  make  the  cloaks." 

Marrin 's  red  face  seemed  to  grow  redder. 

"So,  that's  it!"  he  snapped.  "Well,  here's 
my  answer.  Go  back  to  your  work !" 

The  men  had  stopped  working  and  were  listen- 
ing. The  air  was  electric,  ominous. 

Izon  spoke  tremblingly. 

' '  I  am  very  sorry  then.  I  must  announce  that 
the  men  have  struck!" 

Marrin  glared  at  him. 

"Very  well!     And  get  out — quick!" 

He  turned  and  walked  away,  flaming  with 
rage.  The  men  quickly  put  their  work  away, 
got  their  hats  and  coats,  and  followed  Izon. 
When  they  reached  the  street — a  strange  spec- 

186 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

tacle  on  flashing,  brilliant  Fifth  Avenue — Izon 
suggested  that  they  go  down  to  Tenth  Street,  for 
they  stood  about  like  a  lot  of  lost  sheep. 

"No,"  cried  one  of  the  men,  "we've  had 
enough  of  Tenth  Street.  There's  a  hall  we  can 
use  right  over  on  Eighteenth  Street.  Come 
on." 

The  rest  followed.  Izon  reported  to  Joe,  and 
Joe  asked: 

"Do  you  think  they'll  fight  it  out  ?" 

"I  don't  know!"  Izon  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. 

This  doubt  was  justifiable,  for  he  soon  found 
that  he  was  leading  a  forlorn  hope.  As  morning 
after  morning  the  men  assembled  in  the  dark 
meeting-room  behind  a  saloon,  and  sat  about  in 
their  overcoats  complaining  and  whining,  quoting 
their  wives  and  relatives,  more  and  more  they 
grew  disconsolate  and  discouraged.  There  were 
murmurs  of  rebellion,  words  of  antagonism. 
Finally  on  the  fifth  morning  a  messenger  arrived 
with  a  letter.  Izon  took  it. 

"It's  from  Marrin,"  he  murmured. 

' '  Read  it !     Read  it  out  loud !" 

He  opened  it  and  read : 

To  MY  MEN, — I  have  thought  matters  over.  I  do 
not  like  to  sever  connections  with  men  who  have  been 
so  long  in  my  employ.  If  you  return  to  work  this 
morning,  you  may  go  on  at  the  old  salaries,  and  we 
will  consider  the  matter  closed.  If,  however,  you 
listen  to  advice  calculated  to  ruin  your  future,  and  do 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

not  rettirn,  please  remember  that  I  will  not  be  respon- 
sible. I  shall  then  secure  new  men,  and  your  places 
will  be  occupied  by  others. 

Yours  faithfully, 

THEODORE  MARRIN. 

P.S. — Naturally,  it  is  understood  that  under  no  cir- 
cumstance will  your  leader — Jacob  Izon — the  cause  of 
this  trouble  between  us — be  re-employed.  Such  men 
are  a  disgrace  to  the  world. 

Izon '  s  cheeks  flushed  hot .     He  looked  up . 

"Shall  I  write  to  him  that  we  will  not  con- 
sider his  offer,  and  tell  him  we  refuse  to  com- 
promise?" 

There  was  a  silence  a  little  while,  and  then  one 
of  the  older  men  shuffled  to  his  feet. 

"Tell  you  what  we  do — we  get  up  a  collection 
for  Izon.  Then  everything  will  be  all  right!" 

Izon's  eyes  blazed. 

"Charity?  Not  for  me!  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  of  me!  I  want  you  to  think  of  what  this 
strike  means!" 

Then  some  one  muttered : 

"We've  listened  long  enough  to  Izon." 

And  another :   "I'm  going  to  work !" 

"So  am  I!     So  am  I!" 

They  began  to  rise,  to  shamefacedly  shamble 
toward  the  door.  Izon  rose  to  his  feet,  tried  to 
intercept  them,  stretched  out  his  arms  to  them. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  cried,  "leave  me  out, 
but  get  something.  Don't  go  back  like  this! 
Get  something!  Don't  you  see  that  Marrin  is 

1 88 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

ready  to  give  in  ?     Are  you  going  back  like  weak 
slaves?" 

They  did  not  heed  him;  but  one  old  man 
paused  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"This  will  teach  you  not  to  be  so  rash  next 
time.  You  will  learn  yet." 

And  they  were  gone.  Izon  was  dazed,  heart- 
broken. He  hurried  home  to  his  wife  and  wept 
upon  her  shoulder. 

Late  that  afternoon  Joe  and  Sally  were  again 
alone  in  the  office,  their  lights  lit,  their  pens 
scratching,  working  in  a  sweet  unspoken  sym- 
pathy in  the  quiet,  shadowy  place.  There  was  a 
turning  of  the  knob,  and  Izon  came  in.  Joe  and 
Sally  arose  and  faced  him.  He  came  slowly,  his 
face  drawn  and  haggard. 

"Joe!    Joe!" 

"What  is  it?"  Joe  drew  the  boy  near. 

"They've  gone  back — the  men  have  gone 
back!" 

"Gone  back?"  cried  Joe. 

"Read  this  letter!" 

Joe  read  it,  and  spoke  angrily. 

"Then  I'll  do  something!" 

Izon  pleaded  with  him. 

"Be  careful,  Joe — don't  do  anything  foolish 
for  my  sake.  I'll  get  along — " 

"But  your  wife!     How  does  she  take  it?" 

Izon's  face  brightened. 

"Oh,  she's  a  Comrade!  That's  why  I  married 
her!" 

189 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Good!"  said  Joe.  "Then  I'll  go  ahead.  I'll 
speak  my  mind!" 

"Not  for  me,  though,"  cried  Izon.  "I'll  get 
something  else." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  asked  Joe. 

"Why  not?" 

"Are  you  sure,"  Joe  went  on,  "that  you  won't 
be  blacklisted?" 

Izon  stared  at  him. 

"Well— I  suppose— I  will." 

"You'll  have  to  leave  the  city,  Jacob." 

"I  can't.  I'm  right  in  my  course  of  engineer- 
ing. I  can't  go." 

"Well,  we'll  see!"  Joe's  voice  softened.  "Now 
you  go  home  and  rest.  There's  a  good  fellow. 
And  everything  will  be  all  right!" 

And  he  saw  Izon  out. 

Joe  began  again  to  feel  the  tragic  undercur- 
rents of  life,  the  first  time  since  the  dark  days 
following  the  fire.  He  came  back,  and  stood 
brooding,  his  homely  face  darkened  with  sor- 
row. Sally  stood  watching  him,  her  pale  face 
flushing,  her  eyes  darting  sympathy  and  dar- 
ing. 

"Mr.  Joe." 

"Yes,  Miss  Sally." 

"I  want  to  do  something." 

"What?" 

"I  want  to  go  up  to  Marrin's  to-morrow  and 
get  the  girls  out  on  strike." 

"What's  that?" 

190 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

"I've  done  it  before;  I  can  do  it  again." 

Joe  laughed  softly. 

"Miss  Sally,  what  would  I  do  without  you? 
I'd  go  stale  on  life,  I  think." 

She  made  an  impulsive  movement  toward 
him. 

"Mr.  Joe." 

"Yes?" 

"I  want  to  help  you — every  way." 

"I  know  you  do."  His  voice  was  a  little 
husky,  and  he  looked  up  and  met  her  fine,  clear 
eyes. 

Then  she  turned  away,  sadly. 

"You'll  let  me  do  it?" 

"Oh,  no!"  he  said  firmly.  "The  idea's  ap- 
pealing, but  you  mustn't  think  of  it,  Miss  Sally. 
It  will  only  stir  up  trouble." 

"We  ought  to." 

"Not  for  this." 

"But  the  shirtwaist  -  makers  are  working  in 
intolerable  conditions;  they're  just  ready  to 
strike;  a  spark  would  blow  'em  all  up." 

He  shook  his  head. 

' '  Wait — wait  till  we  see  what  my  next  number 
does!" 

Sally  said  no  more;  but  her  heart  nursed  her 
desire  until  it  grew  to  an  overmastering  passion. 
She  left  for  the  night,  and  Joe  sat  down,  burning 
with  the  fires  of  righteousness.  And  he  wrote 
an  editorial  that  altered  the  current  of  his  life. 
He  wrote: 

191 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

FORTY-FIVE  TREACHEROUS  MEN 

Theodore  Marrin  and  the  forty-four  who  went  back  to 
work  for  him: 

Every  one  of  you  is  a  traitor  to  American  citizenship. 
Let  us  use  blunt  words  and  call  a  spade  a  spade. 

Theodore  Marrin,  you  have  betrayed  your  employees. 

You  forty-four  men,  you  have  betrayed  yourselves 
and  your  leader. 

And  so  it  went,  sharp,  incisive,  plain-spoken — 
words  that  were  hot  brands  and  burned. 

He  was  sitting  at  this  task  (twice  his  mother 
had  called  him  to  supper  and  he  had  waved  her 
away)  when  an  exquisite  black-eyed  little  woman 
came  in. 

"Mr.  Elaine?" 

"Yes." 

"I'm  Mrs.  Izon." 

Joe  wheeled  about  and  seized  her  hand. 

"Tell  me  to  do  something  for  you!  You  and 
your  brave  husband!" 

Mrs.  Izon  spoke  quietly: 

"I  came  here  because  Jacob  is  so  worried.  He 
is  afraid  you  will  harm  yourself  for  us." 

Joe  laughed  softly. 

"Tell  him  not  to  worry  any  longer.  It's  you 
who  are  suffering — not  I.  I  ?  I  am  only  having 
fun." 

She  was  not  satisfied. 

"We  oughtn't  to  get  others  mixed  up  in  our 
troubles." 

192 


TREACHEROUS   MEN 

"It's  hard  for  you,  isn't  it  ?"  Joe  murmured. 

"Yes."  She  smiled  sadly.  "I  suppose  it 
isn't  right  when  you  are  in  the  struggle  to  get 
married.  Not  right  to  the  children." 

Joe  spoke  courageously. 

"Never  you  mind,  Mrs.  Izon — but  just  wait. 
Wait  three — four  days.  We'll  see!" 

They  did  wait,  and  they  did  see. 


VI 

A  FIGHT  IN  GOOD  EARNEST 

SALLY  hesitated  before  going  into  Marrin's 
that  Monday  morning.  A  blinding  snow- 
storm was  being  released  over  the  city,  and  the 
fierce  gusts  eddied  about  the  corner  of  Fifth 
Avenue,  blew  into  drifts,  lodged  on  sill  and  cor- 
nice and  lintel,  and  blotted  out  the  sky  and  the 
world.  Through  the  wild  whiteness  a  few  deso- 
late people  ploughed  their  way,  buffeted,  blown, 
hanging  on  to  their  hats,  and  quite  unable  to  see 
ahead.  Sally  shoved  her  red  little  hands  into 
her  coat  pockets,  and  stood,  a  careless  soul,  in 
the  white  welter. 

From  her  shoulder,  some  hundred  feet  to  the 
south,  ran  the  plate-glass  of  Marrin's,  spotted 
and  clotted  and  stringy  with  snow  and  ice,  and 
right  before  her  was  the  entrance  for  deliveries 
and  employees.  A  last  consideration  held  her 
back.  She  had  been  lying  awake  nights  arguing 
with  her  conscience.  Joe  had  told  her  not  to  do 
it — that  it  would  only  stir  up  trouble — but  Joe 
was  too  kindly.  In  the  battles  of  the  working 
people  a  time  must  come  for  cruelty,  blows,  and 
swift  victory.  Marrin  was  an  out-and-out  enemy 

194 


A  FIGHT    IN    GOOD    EARNEST 

to  be  met  and  overthrown ;  he  had  made  traitors 
of  the  men ;  he  had  annihilated  Izon ;  she  would 
fight  him  with  the  women. 

Nor  was  this  the  only  reason.  Sally  felt  that 
her  supreme  task  was  to  organize  the  women  in 
industry,  to  take  this  trampled  class  and  make 
of  it  a  powerful  engine  for  self-betterment,  and 
no  women  were  more  prepared,  she  felt,  than  the 
shirtwaist  -  makers.  She  knew  that  at  Marrin's 
the  conditions  were  fairly  good,  though,  even 
there,  women  and  young  girls  worked  sometimes 
twelve  hours  and  more  a  day,  and  earned,  many 
of  them,  but  four  or  five  dollars  a  week.  What 
tempted  Sally,  however,  was  the  knowledge  that 
a  strike  at  Marrin's  would  be  the  spark  to  set  off 
the  city  and  bring  out  the  women  by  the  thou- 
sands. It  would  be  the  uprising  of  the  women; 
the  first  upward  step  from  sheer  wage-slavery; 
the  first  advance  toward  the  ideal  of  that  coming 
woman,  who  should  be  a  man  in  her  freedom  and 
her  strength  and  her  power,  and  yet  woman  of 
woman  in  her  love  and  her  motherhood  and  wife- 
hood.  Industry,  so  Sally  knew,  was  taking  the 
young  girls  by  the  million,  overworking  them, 
sapping  them  of  body  and  soul,  and  casting  them 
out  unfit  to  bear  children,  untrained  to  keep 
house,  undisciplined  to  meet  life  and  to  be  a  com- 
rade of  a  man.  And  Sally  knew,  moreover, 
what  could  be  done.  She  knew  what  she  had 
accomplished  with  the  hat- trimmers. 

Nevertheless,  she  hesitated,  not  quite  sure  that 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

the  moment  had  come.  Joe's  words  detained  her 
in  a  way  no  man's  words  had  ever  done  before. 
But  she  thought:  "I  do  this  for  him.  I  sharpen 
the  edge  of  his  editorial  and  drive  it  home. 
Words  could  never  hurt  Marrin — but  I  can." 
She  got  under  the  shelter  of  the  doorway  and 
with  numb  hand  pulled  a  copy  of  The  Nine- 
Tenths  from  her  pocket,  unfolded  it,  and  reread 
the  burning  words  of:  "Forty- five  Treacher- 
ous Men."  They  roused  all  her  fighting  blood; 
they  angered  her;  they  incited  her. 

4 'Joe!  Joe!"  she  murmured.  "It's  you  driv- 
ing me  on — it's  you!  Here  goes!" 

It  was  in  some  ways  a  desperate  undertaking. 
Once,  in  Newark,  a  rough  of  an  employer  had 
almost  thrown  her  down  the  stairs,  man-handling 
her,  and  while  Marrin  or  his  men  would  not  do 
this,  yet  what  method  could  she  use  to  brave  the 
two  hundred  and  fifty  people  in  the  loft?  She 
was  quite  alone,  quite  without  any  weapon  save 
her  tongue.  To  fail  would  be  ridiculous  and 
ignominious.  Yet  Sally  was  quite  calm;  her 
heart  did  not  seem  to  miss  a  beat ;  her  brain  was 
not  confused  by  a  rush  of  blood.  She  knew 
what  she  was  doing. 

She  climbed  that  first  flight  of  semi-circular 
stairs  without  hindrance,  secretly  hoping  that  by 
no  mischance  either  Marrin  or  one  of  his  sub- 
bosses  might  emerge.  There  was  a  door  at  the 
first  landing.  She  passed  it  quickly  and  started 
up  the  second  flight.  Then  there  was  a  turning 

196 


A  FIGHT    IN   GOOD    EARNEST 

of  a  knob,  a  rustling  of  skirts,  and  a  voice  came 
sharp : 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

Sally  turned.  The  forelady  stood  below  her — 
a  large,  eagle-eyed  woman,  with  square  and 
wrinkled  face,  quite  a  mustache  on  her  upper 
lip.  Sally  spoke  easily. 

"Up-stairs." 

"For  what?" 

"To  see  one  of  the  girls.     Her  mother's  sick." 

The  forelady  eyed  Sally  suspiciously. 

"Did  you  get  a  permit  from  the  office?" 

Sally  seemed  surprised. 

"Permit?  No!  Do  you  have  to  get  a  per- 
mit?" 

The  forelady  spoke  roughly. 

"You  get  a  permit,  or  you  don't  go  up." 

"Where's  the  office?" 

"In  here." 

"Thanks  for  telling  me!" 

Sally  came  down,  and,  as  she  entered  the  door- 
way, the  forelady  proceeded  up-stairs.  Sally 
delayed  a  second,  until  the  forelady  disappeared 
around  the  bend,  and  then  quickly,  quietly  she 
followed,  taking  the  steps  two  at  a  time.  The 
forelady  had  hardly  entered  the  doorway  on  the 
next  landing  when  Sally  was  in  with  her,  and 
treading  softly  in  her  footsteps. 

This  was  the  loft,  vast,  lit  by  windows  east 
and  west,  and  hung,  this  snow-darkened  morn- 
ing, with  many  glittering  lights.  Through  all 

197 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

the  space  girls  and  women,  close  together,  bent 
over  power  -  machines  which  seemed  to  race 
at  intolerable  speed.  There  was  such  a  din 
and  clatter,  such  a  whizzing,  thumping  racket, 
that  voices  or  steps  would  well  be  lost.  Then 
suddenly,  in  the  very  center  of  the  place,  the 
forelady,  stopping  to  speak  to  a  girl,  while  all  the 
girls  of  the  neighborhood  ceased  work  to  listen, 
thus  producing  a  space  of  calm — the  forelady, 
slightly  turning  and  bending,  spied  Sally. 

She  came  up  indignantly. 

"Why  did  you  follow  me?  Go  down  to  the 
office!" 

Many  more  machines  stopped,  many  more 
pale  faces  lifted  and  watched. 

Sally  gave  a  quick  glance  around,  and  was  a 
trifle  upset  by  seeing  Mr.  Marrin  coming  straight 
toward  her.  He  came  with  his  easy,  tripping 
stride,  self-satisfied,  red-faced,  tastefully  dress- 
ed, an  orchid  in  his  buttonhole.  Sally  spoke 
quickly. 

1 '  I  was  only  looking  for  Mr.  Marrin,  and  here 
he  is!" 

As  Mr.  Marrin  came  up,  more  and  more  ma- 
chines stopped,  as  if  by  contagion,  and  the  place 
grew  strangely  hushed. 

The  forelady  turned  to  her  boss. 

"This  woman's  sneaked  in  here  without  a 
permit!" 

Marrin  spoke  sharply. 

"What  do  you  want?" 
198 


A   FIGHT    IN    GOOD    EARNEST 

Then  in  the  quiet  Sally  spoke  in  a  loud,  exul- 
tant voice. 

1 '  I  only  wanted  to  tell  the  girls  to  strike !" 

A  sudden  electricity  charged  the  air. 

"What!"  cried  Marrin,  the  vein  on  his  fore- 
head swelling.  "You  come  in  here — 

"To  tell  the  girls  to  strike,"  Sally  spoke  louder. 
"For  you've  made  the  men  traitors  and  you've 
blacklisted  Izon." 

Marrin  sensed  the  danger  in  the  shop's  quiet. 

"For  God's  sake,"  he  cried,  "lower  your 
voice — speak  to  me — tell  me  in  private— 

"I  am,"  shrieked  Sally.  "I'm  telling  you  I 
want  the  girls  to  strike!" 

He  turned. 

"Come  in  my  private  office,  quick!  I'll  talk 
with  you!" 

Sally  followed  his  hurried  steps. 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  you  there,"  she  fairly  shrieked, 
"that  I  want  the  girls  to  strike!" 

Marrin  turned. 

"Can't  you  shut  up?" 

And  then  Sally  wheeled  about  and  spoke  to  the 
two  hundred. 

"Girls!  come  on  out!  We'll  tie  him  up! 
We're  not  like  the  men!  We  won't  stand  for 
such  things,  will  we?" 

Then,  in  the  stillness,  Jewish  girls  here  and 
there  rose  from  their  machines.  It  was  like  the 
appearance  of  apparitions.  How  did  it  come 
that  these  girls  were  more  ready  than  any  one 

199 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

could  have  guessed,  and  were  but  waiting  the 
call?  More  and  more  arose,  and  low  murmurs 
spread,  words,  "It's  about  time!  I  won't  slave 
any  more!  He  had  no  right  to  put  out  Izon! 
The  men  are  afraid !  Mr.  Elaine  is  right !" 

Marrin  tried  to  shout: 

"I  order  you  to  get  to  work!" 

But  a  tumult  drowned  his  voice,  a  busy  clamor, 
an  exultant  jabber  of  tongues,  a  rising,  a  shuffling, 
a  moving  about. 

Sally  marched  down  the  aisle. 

"Follow  me,  girls!  We're  going  to  have  a 
union!" 

It  might  have  been  the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin 
whistling  up  the  rats — there  was  a  hurrying,  a 
scurrying,  a  weird  laughter,  a  blowing  about  of 
words,  and  the  two  hundred,  first  swallowing  up 
Sally,  crowded  the  doorway,  moved  slowly, 
pushed,  shoved,  wedged  through,  and  disap- 
peared, thundering,  shouting  and  laughing,  down 
the  steps.  The  two  hundred,  always  so  subdued, 
so  easily  bossed,  so  obedient  and  submissive, 
had  risen  and  gone. 

Marrin  looked  apoplectic.  He  rushed  over  to 
where  the  forty-four  men  were  sitting  like  fright- 
ened animals.  He  spoke  to  the  one  nearest  him. 

"Who  was  that  girl?  I've  seen  her  some- 
where!" 

"She?"  the  man  stammered.  "That's  Joe 
Elaine's  girl." 

"Joe  Blame!"  cried  Marrin. 

200 


A  FIGHT    IN    GOOD    EARNEST 

"Look,"  said  the  man,  handing  Marrin  a  copy. 
of  The  Nine-Tenths,  "the  girls  read  this  this 
morning.  That's  why  they  struck." 

Marrin  seized  the  paper.     He  saw  the  title : 

FORTY-FIVE  TREACHEROUS  MEN 
and  he  read  beneath  it  : 

Theodore  Marrin,  and  the  forty-four  who  went  back  to 
work  for  him: 

Every  one  of  you  is  a  traitor  to  American  citizenship. 
Let  us  use  blunt  words  and  call  a  spade  a  spade. 

Theodore  Marrin,  you  have  betrayed  your  employees. 

And  then  farther  down : 

No  decent  human  being  would  work  for  such  a  man. 
He  has  no  right  to  be  an  employer — not  in  such  hands 
should  be  placed  the  sacred  welfare  of  men  and  women. 
If  I  were  one  of  Marrin's  employees  I  would  prefer  the 
streets  to  his  shop. 

Marrin  looked  up  at  the  forty-four.  And  he 
saw  that  they  were  more  than  frightened — they 
were  in  an  ugly  humor,  almost  ferocious.  The 
article  had  goaded  them  into  a  senseless  fury. 

Marrin  spoke  more  easily. 

"So  that's  your  friend  of  labor,  that's  your  Joe 
Elaine.  Well,  here  is  what  your  Joe  Elaine  has 
done  for  you.  You're  no  good  to  me  without  the 
girls.  You're  all  discharged !' ' 

He  left  them  and  made  madly  for  the  door, 
201 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

The  men  were  chaotic  with  rage;    they  arose; 
their  voices  went  sharp  and  wild. 

' '  What  does  that  Joe  Elaine  mean  ?  He  takes 
the  bread  out  of  our  mouths !  He  makes  fools  of 
us!  He  ought  to  be  shot!  I  spit  on  him! 
Curse  him!" 

One  man  arose  on  a  chair. 

"You  fools — you  listened  to  that  man,  and 
went  on  strike — and  now  you  come  back,  and  he 
makes  you  lose  your  jobs.  Are  you  going  to  be 
fools  now?  Are  you  going  to  let  him  get  the 
best  of  you?  He  is  laughing  at  you,  the  pig. 
The  girls  are  laughing  at  you.  Come  on!  We 
will  go  down  and  show  him — we  will  assemble 
before  his  place  and  speak  to  him!" 

The  men  were  insane  with  rage  and  demon- 
hate.  Vehemently  shouting,  they  made  for  the 
stairs,  rushed  pell-mell  down,  and  sought  the 
street,  and  turned  south  through  the  snow. 
There  were  few  about  to  notice  them,  none  to 
stop  them.  Policemen  were  in  doorways  and 
odd  shelters.  And  so,  unimpeded,  the  crazed 
mob  made  its  way. 

In  the  mean  time  Marrin  had  come  out  in  his 
heavy  fur  coat  and  stepped  into  his  closed  auto- 
mobile. It  went  through  the  storm,  easily 
gliding,  turned  up  West  Tenth  Street,  and  stop- 
ped before  Joe's  windows.  Marrin  hurried  in 
and  boldly  opened  the  office  door.  Billy  jumped 
up  to  intercept  him. 

"Mr.  Elaine — "  he  began. 
202 


A  FIGHT    IN  GOOD    EARNEST 

"Get  out  of  my  way!"  snapped  Marrin,  and 
stepped  up  to  Joe. 

Joe  was  brooding  at  his  desk,  brooding  and 
writing,  his  dark  face  troubled,  his  big  form  quite 
stoop-shouldered. 

"Well,"  said  Joe,  "what's  the  matter,  Mr. 
Marrin?" 

Marrin  tried  to  contain  his  rage.  He  pointed 
his  cane  at  Joe. 

11  You've  made  a  mistake,  Mr.  Elaine." 

"It  isn't  the  first  one." 

"Let  me  tell  you  something — " 

"I  will  let  you." 

Marrin  spoke  with  repression. 

"Next  time — don't  attack  both  the  boss  and 
the  men.  It's  bad  policy.  Take  sides." 

"Oh,  I  did  take  sides,"  said  Joe,  lightly.  "I'm 
against  anything  treacherous." 

Marrin  exploded. 

"Well,  you'll  get  yours!  And  let  me  tell  you 
something!  I've  a  good  mind  to  sue  you  for 
libel  and  shut  up  your  shop." 

Joe  rose,  and  there  was  a  dangerous  light  in 
his  eyes.  His  hands  were  open  at  his  sides,  but 
they  twitched  a  little. 

"Then,"  said  Joe,  "I'll  make  it  worth  your 
while.  If  you  don't  want  to  be  helped  out,  get 
out!" 

"Very  well,"  sputtered  Marrin,  and  turned, 
twirling  his  cane,  and  made  an  upright  exit. 

The  sad  Slate  was  paralyzed ;  Billy  was  joyous. 
203 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

But  Joe  strode  into  the  kitchen,  where  his 
mother  was  quietly  reading  at  the  window. 

" What  is  it,  Joe?" 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "that  fellow  Marrin  was  in 
threatening  to  sue  me  for  libel." 

"Could  it  hurt  you?" 

"It  might.  Speaking  the  truth  is  always 
libelous." 

Joe's  mother  spoke  softly. 

"Your  father  lost  an  arm  in  the  war.  You 
can't  expect  to  fight  without  facing  danger. 
And  besides,"  she  laughed  easily,  "you  can 
always  get  a  job  as  a  printer,  Joe." 

Joe  paced  up  and  down  moodily,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back. 

"If  it  was  only  myself — '  he  murmured, 
greatly  troubled.  * '  I  wonder  where  Sally  is  this 
morning." 

"Didn't  she  come,  Joe?" 

"No.  Not  a  word  from  her.  I'd  hate  her  to 
be  sick." 

"Hadn't  you  better  send  over  and  see?" 

"I'll  wait  a  bit  yet.  And  yet — "  he  sighed, 
"I  just  need  Sally  now." 

His  mother  glanced  at  him  keenly. 

"Sally's  a  wonder,"  she  murmured. 

"She  is— "  He  spoke  a  little  irritably.  "Why 
couldn't  she  have  come  this  morning?" 

There  were  quick  steps,  and  Billy  rushed  in, 
his  eyes  large,  his  cheeks  pale. 

"Mr.  Joe!"  he  said  breathlessly. 
204 


A  FIGHT    IN    GOOD   EARNEST 

"Yes,  Billy." 

"There's  a  lot  of  men  out  on  the  street,  and 
they're  beginning  to  fire  snowballs!" 

Nathan  Slate  came  in,  a  scarecrow  of  fear, 
teeth  chattering. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Joe,"  he  wailed.     "Oh,  Mr.  Joe!" 

Joe's  mother  rose,  and  spoke  under  her  breath. 

"Mr.  Slate,  sit  down  at  once!" 

Slate  collapsed  on  a  chair,  trembling. 

Joe  felt  as  if  a  fork  of  lightning  had  transfixed 
him — a  sharp  white  fire  darting  from  head  and 
feet  and  arms  to  his  heart,  and  whirling  there  in  a 
spinning  ball.  He  spoke  quietly: 

"I'll  go  and  see." 

It  seemed  long  before  he  got  to  the  front  win- 
dow. Looking  out  through  the  snow-dim  pane, 
he  saw  the  street  filled  with  gesticulating  men. 
He  saw  some  of  the  faces  of  the  forty-four,  but 
mingled  with  these  were  other  faces — the  faces 
of  toughs  and  thugs,  ominous,  brutal,  menacing. 
In  a  flash  he  realized  that  he  had  been  making 
enemies  in  the  district  as  well  as  friends,  and  it 
struck  him  that  these  were  the  criminal  element 
in  the  political  gang,  hangers-on,  floaters,  the 
saloon  contingent,  who  were  maddened  by  his 
attempt  to  lead  the  people  away  from  the  rotten 
bosses.  As  if  by  magic  they  had  emerged  from 
the  underworld,  as  they  always  do  in  times  of 
trouble,  and  he  knew  that  the  excited  East  Side 
group  was  now  flavored  with  mob-anarchy — 
that  he  had  to  deal,  not  with  men  whose  worst 

205 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

weapon  was  words,  but  with  brutes  who  lusted 
for  broken  heads.  Some  of  the  faces  he  knew— 
he  had  seen  them  hanging  about  saloons.  And 
he  saw,  too,  in  that  swift  scrutiny,  that  many  of 
the  men  had  weapons ;  some  had  seized  crowbars 
and  sledges  from  a  near-by  street  tool-chest 
which  was  being  used  by  laborers;  others  had 
sticks;  some  had  stones.  An  ominous  sound 
came  from  the  mob,  something  winged  with 
doom  and  death,  like  the  rattling  of  a  venomous 
snake,  with  head  raised  to  strike,  ready  fangs 
and  glittering  eyes.  He  could  catch  in  that 
paralyzing  hum  words  tossed  here  and  there: 
4 'Smash  his  presses!  Clean  him  out!  Lynch 
him,  lynch  him !  Kill— kill— kill  !- 

A  human  beast  had  coiled  at  his  door,  myriad- 
headed,  insane,  bloodthirsty,  all-powerful  —  the 
mob,  that  terror  of  civilization,  that  sudden 
reversion  in  mass  to  a  state  of  savagery.  It 
boded  ill  for  Joe  Elaine.  He  had  a  bitter,  cynical 
thought : 

4 '  So  this  is  what  comes  of  spreading  the  truth — 
of  really  trying  to  help  —  of  living  out  an 
ideal!" 

A  snowball  hit  the  window  before  him,  a  soft 
crash  and  spread  of  drip,  and  there  rose  from  the 
mob  a  fiendish  yell  that  seemed  itself  a  power, 
making  the  heart  pound,  dizzying  the  brain. 

Joe  turned.  His  mother  was  standing  close  to 
him,  white  as  paper,  but  her  eyes  flashing.  She 
had  not  dared  speak  to  Joe,  knowing  that  this 

206 


A   FIGHT  -IN   GOOD    EARNEST 

fight  was  his  and  that  he  had  passed  out  of  her 
hands. 

He  spoke  in  a  low,  pulsing  voice. 

"Mother,  I  want  you  to  stay  in  back !" 

She  looked  at  him,  as  if  drinking  her  fill  of  his 
face. 

"You're  right,  Joe,"  she  whispered,  and 
turned  and  went  out. 

Billy  was  standing  at  the  stove,  a  fright- 
ened boy,  but  he  gripped  the  poker  in  his 
hand. 

"Billy,"  said  Joe,  quietly,  "run  down  and  tell 
Rann  to  keep  'em  out  of  the  press-room." 

Billy  edged  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  fled. 

Joe  was  quite  alone.  He  sat  down  at  his  desk 
and  took  up  the  telephone. 

"Hello,  Central!"  his  voice  was  monotonous 
in  its  lowness  and  tenseness. 

"Hello!" 

"Give  me  police  headquarters — quick!" 

Central  seemed  startled. 

"Police — ?  Yes,  right  away!  Hold  on! — 
Here  they  are!" 

"Hello!  Police  headquarters!"  came  a  man's 
voice. 

"This  is  Joe  Blaine."  Joe  gave  his  address. 
"There's  a  riot  in  front  of  the  house — a  big  mob. 
Send  over  a  patrol  wagon  on  the  jump!" 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  wild  crash  of 
glass,  and  a  heavy  stone  sang  through  the  air 
and  knocked  out  the  stove-pipe — pipe  and  stone 

207 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

falling  to  the  floor  with  a  rumble  and  rattle — 
and  from  the  mob  rose  murderous  yells. 

So  Joe  was  able  to  add : 

"They've  just  smashed  my  window  with  a 
stone.  You'd  better  come  damn  fast." 

"Right  off!"  snapped  Headquarters. 

Joe  put  down  the  telephone,  and  stepped 
quietly  over  the  room  and  out  into  the  hall. 
Even  at  that  moment  the  hall  door  burst  wide 
and  a  frenzied  push  and  squabble  of  men  poured 
forth  upon  him.  In  that  brief  glimpse,  in  the 
dim  storm-light,  Joe  saw  faces  that  were  any- 
thing but  human — wild  animals,  eyes  blood-shot, 
mouths  wide,  and  many  fists  in  the  air  above 
their  heads.  There  was  no  mercy,  no  thought, 
nothing  civilized — but  somehow  the  demon-deeps 
of  human  nature,  crusted  over  with  the  veneer 
of  gentler  things,  had  broken  through.  Worse 
than  anything  was  the  crazy  hum,  rising  and 
rising,  the  hoarse  notes,  the  fierce  discord,  that 
beat  upon  his  brain  as  if  to  drown  him  under. 

Joe  tried  to  shout : 

"Keep  back!     I'll  shoot!    Keep  back!" 

But  at  once  the  rough  bodies,  the  terrible  faces 
were  upon  him,  surrounding  him,  pushing  him. 
He  seized  a  little  man  who  was  jumping  for  his 
throat — seized  and  shook  the  little  beast. 

"Get  back!"  he  cried. 

Fists  pushed  into  his  eyes,  blows  began  to  rain 
upon  his  body  and  his  head.  He  ducked.  He 
felt  himself  propelled  backward  by  an  irresistible 

208 


A  FIGHT    IN   GOOD    EARNEST 

force.  He  felt  his  feet  giving  way.  Warm  and 
reeking  breath  blew  up  his  nostrils.  He  heard 
confused  cries  of:  "Kill  him!  That's  him! 
We've  got  him!"  Back  and  back  he  went,  the 
torn  center  of  a  storm,  and  then  something  warm 
and  sweet  gushed  over  his  eyes,  earth  opened 
under  him  and  he  sank,  sank  through  soft  gulfs, 
deeper  and  deeper,  far  from  the  troublous  noise 
of  life,  far,  far — into  an  engulfing  blackness. 

The  flood  poured  on,  gushing  down  the  stair- 
way, at  the  foot  of  which  Rann  and  his  two  men 
stood,  all  armed  with  wrenches  and  tools. 

Rann  shouted. 

' '  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  one  who  comes !" 

The  men  in  advance  tried  to  break  away,  well 
content  to  leave  their  heads  whole,  but  those  in 
the  rear  pushed  them  on.  Whack!  whack! 
went  the  wrench — the  leader  fell.  But  then  with 
fierce  screams  the  mob  broke  loose,  the  three  men 
were  swept  into  the  vortex  of  a  fighting  whirl- 
pool. Some  one  opened  the  basement  gate  from 
the  inside  and  a  new  stream  poured  in.  The 
press-room  filled — crowbars  got  to  work — while 
men  danced  and  wildly  laughed  and  exulted  in 
their  vandal  work.  Then  suddenly  arose  the 
cry  of,  "Police!"  Tools  dropped;  the  mob 
turned  like  a  stampede  of  cattle,  crushed  for  the 
doors,  cried  out,  caught  in  a  trap,  and  ran  into 
the  arms  of  blue-coated  officers.  .  .  . 

When  Joe  next  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
out  with  some  surprise  on  the  same  world  that  he 
14  209 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

was  used  to,  he  found  himself  stretched  in  his 
bed  and  a  low  gas-flame  eyeing  him  from  above. 
He  put  out  a  hand,  because  he  felt  queer  about 
the  head,  and  touched  bandages.  Then  some 
one  spoke  in  his  ear. 

"You  want  to  keep  quiet,  Mr.  Elaine." 

He  looked.     A  doctor  was  sitting  beside  him. 

"Where's  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Here  I  am,  Joe."  Her  voice  was  sweet  in  his 
ears. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  bed  at  his  feet. 

"Come  here." 

She  took  the  seat  beside  him  and  folded  his 
free  hand  with  both  of  hers. 

"Mother — I  want  to.  know  what's  the  matter 
with  me — every  bit  of  it." 

"Well,  Joe,  you've  a  broken  arm  and  a  bunged- 
up  head,  but  you'll  be  all  right." 

"And  you — are  you  all  right  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"They  didn't  go  in  the  kitchen?" 

"No." 

"And  the  press?" 

"It's  smashed." 

"And  the  office?" 

"In  ruins." 

"How  about  Rann  and  the  men ?" 

"Bruised— that's  all." 

"The  police  came?" 

"Cleaned  them  out." 

There  was  a  pause;   then  Joe  and  his  mother 

210 


A  FIGHT    IN  GOOD    EARNEST 

looked  at  each  other  with  queer  expressions  on 
their  faces,  and  suddenly  their  mellow  laughter 
filled  the  room. 

"Isn't  it  great,  mother?  That's  what  we 
get!" 

"Well,  Joe,"  said  his  mother,  "what  do  you 
expect?" 

Suddenly  then  another  stood  before  him — 
bowed,  remorseful,  humble.  It  was  Sally  Heffer, 
the  tears  trickling  down  her  face. 

She  knelt  at  the  bedside  and  buried  her  face  in 
the  cover. 

"It's  my  fault!"  she  cried.     "It's  my  fault!" 

"Yours,  Sally  ?"  cried  Joe,  quite  forgetting  the 
"Miss."  "How  so?" 

"I — I  went  to  Marrin's  and  got  the  girls  out." 

' '  Got  the  girls  out  ?"  Joe  exclaimed.  * '  Where 
are  they  ?' ' 

"On  the  street." 

"Bring  them  into  the  ruins,"  said  Joe,  "and 
organize  them.  I'm  going  to  make  a  business  of 
this  thing." 

Sally  looked  up  aghast. 

"But  I — I  ought  to  be  shot  down.  It's  I  that 
should  have  been  hurt." 

Joe  smiled  on  her. 

"Sally!  Sally!  what  an  impetuous  girl  you 
are !  What  would  I  do  without  you  ?' ' 


VII 

OF    THE    THIRTY   THOUSAND 

ONE  wonderful  January  twilight,  when  the 
clear,  cold  air  seemed  to  tremble  with 
lusty  health,  Myra  sat  alone  in  the  Ramble, 
before  the  little  frozen  pond.  And  she  thought: 

"This  is  the  bench  we  sat  on ;  and  it  was  here, 
that  morning,  that  we  quarreled;  and  this  is  the 
little  pond ;  and  those  the  trees  —  but  how 
changed !  how  changed ! ' ' 

A  world-city  practises  magic.  Any  one  who 
for  years  has  slept  in  her  walls  and  worn  the  pave 
of  her  streets  and  mingled  with  her  crowds  and 
her  lighted  nights,  is  changed  by  her  subtle 
enchantment  into  a  child  of  the  city.  He  is 
never  free  thereafter.  The  metropolis  may  send 
him  forth  like  a  carrier-pigeon,  and  he  may  think 
he  is  well  rid  of  his  mistress,  but  the  homing  in- 
stinct inevitably  draws  him  back.  "All  other 
pleasures,"  as  Emerson  said  of  love,  "are  not 
worth  its  pains."  Myra  thought  that  she  hated 
New  York — the  great  nervous  sea  of  life,  whose 
noise  and  stress  and  tragedy  had  shattered  her 
health.  She  had  longed  for  the  peace  of  nature ; 
she  had  gone  forth  to  the  meadows  and  the 

212 


OF   THE   THIRTY   THOUSAND 

mountains,  and  for  a  long  time  been  content  with 
the  sounds  of  the  barnyard  and  the  farm,  the 
wind  and  the  brook;  she  had  sunk,  as  it  were, 
into  the  arms  of  the  earth  and  rested  on  that 
great  nourishing  breast.  She  loved  pure  air,  far 
horizons,  quiet,  and  the  mysterious  changes  of 
the  landscape.  She  thought  she  was  done  with 
the  city  forever.  For  had  she  not  found  that  the 
Vision  of  White  Towers  seen  that  first  evening 
was  hollow  and  bitter  at  the  heart,  that  beneath 
the  beauty  was  dust  and  horror,  routine  and 
disease  ? 

But  one  snow-bound  morning  as  she  gazed  out 
from  the  quiet  house  and  saw  the  limitless  white 
of  the  world,  the  fences  buried,  the  trees  loaded, 
the  earth  lost  under  the  gray  heavens,  suddenly 
she  was  filled  with  a  passionate  desire  for  life. 
She  was  amazed  at  the  restlessness  in  her  heart. 
But  she  could  not  shake  it  off.  Her  desire  was 
very  definite — to  walk  down  Eightieth  Street,  to 
hear  and  see  the  trolleys  bounding  down  the  little 
hill  to  Seventy-ninth  Street,  to  shop  on  Third 
Avenue,  to  go  threading  her  way  through  the 
swarm  of  school  children  outside  the  school  gates. 
And  then  subtly  she  felt  the  elixir  of  a  Broadway 
night,  the  golden  witchery  of  the  lights,  the 
laughter- smitten  people,  the  crowded  cars  and 
motors,  the  shining  shops,  the  warmth  of  the 
crowd.  A  thousand  memories  of  streets  and 
rooms,  of  people  and  of  things,  flooded  her  mind. 
The  country  seemed  barren  and  cold  and  lonely. 

213 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

She  was  grievously  homesick.  It  was  as  if  the 
city  cried :  '  *  It  is  winter ;  the  world  is  dark  and 
dead.  Come,  my  children,  gather  together; 
gather  here  in  my  arms,  you  millions ;  laugh  and 
converse  together,  toil  together,  light  fires,  turn 
on  lights,  warm  your  hands  and  souls  at  my 
flaming  hearth.  We  will  forget  the  ice  and  the 
twilight!  Come,  winter  is  the  time  for  human 
beings!" 

And  so  Myra  awoke  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
indeed  a  child  of  the  city — that  the  magic  was  in 
her  blood  and  the  enchantment  in  her  heart.  It 
was  useless  to  recall  the  mean  toil,  the  narrow 
life,  the  unhealthy  days.  These,  dropped  in  the 
great  illusion  of  crowded  New  York,  were  trans- 
formed into  a  worthy  struggle,  a  part  of  the 
city's  reality.  She  suddenly  felt  as  if  she  would 
go  crazy  if  she  stayed  in  the  country — its  still- 
ness stifled  her,  its  emptiness  made  her  ache. 

But  there  was  a  deeper  call  than  the  call  of  the 
city.  She  wanted  to  be  with  Joe.  Her  letters 
to  him  had  been  for  his  sake,  nqt  hers.  She  had 
tried  to  save  him  from  herself,  to  shut  him  out 
and  set  him  free,  to  cure  him  of  his  love.  Desper- 
ately she  did  this,  knowing  that  the  future  held 
nothing  for  them  together.  And  for  a  time  it 
had  been  a  beautiful  thing  to  do,  until  finally  she 
was  compelled  to  believe  that  he  really  was  cured. 
His  notes  were  more  and  more  perfunctory,  until, 
at  last,  they  ceased  altogether.  Then,  when  she 
knew  she  had  lost  him,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she 

214 


OF    THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

had  condemned  herself  to  a  barren,  fruitless  life; 
that  the  best  had  been  lived,  and  it  only  remained 
now  to  die.  She  had  given  up  her  ' '  whole  exist- 
ence," cast  out  that  by  which  she  truly  lived. 
There  were  moments  of  inexpressible  loneliness, 
when,  reading  in  the  orchard,  or  brooding  beside 
some  rippling  brook,  she  glanced  southward  and 
sent  her  silent  cry  over  the  horizon.  Somewhere 
down  there  he  was  swallowed  in  the  vastness  of 
life;  she  remembered  the  lines  of  his  face,  his 
dark  melancholy  eyes,  his  big  human,  hu- 
morous lips,  his  tall,  awkward  strength ;  she 
felt  still  those  kisses  on  her  lips;  felt  his  arms 
about  her ;  the  warmth  of  his  hand ;  the 
whisper  of  his  words;  and  the  wind  in  the 
oaks. 

That  afternoon  at  the  riverside  he  had  cast  his 
future  at  her  feet.  She  had  been  offered  that 
which  runs  deeper  than  hunger  or  dream  or  toil, 
the  elemental,  the  mystic,  the  very  glory  of  a 
woman's  life.  She  had  been  offered  a  life,  too, 
of  comradeship  and  great  issues.  And  now, 
when  these  gifts  were  withdrawn,  she  knew  she 
would  nevermore  have  rest  or  joy  in  this  world. 
Is  not  life  the  adventure  of  a  man  and  a  woman 
going  forth  together,  toiling,  and  talking,  and 
laughing,  and  creating  on  the  road  to  death  ?  Is 
not  earth  the  mating-place  for  souls?  Out  of 
nature  we  rise  and  seek  out  each  other  and  mate 
and  make  of  life  a  glory  and  a  mystery.  This  is 
the  secret  of  youth,  and  the  magic  of  all  music 

215 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

and  of  all  sorrow  and  of  all  toil.  Or,  so  it  seemed 
to  Myra. 

There  is  no  longing  in  the  world  so  tragic  or 
terrible  as  that  of  men  and  women  for  each  other. 
And  so  Myra  had  her  homesickness  for  the  city 
transfused  and  sharpened  by  her  overmastering 
love.  She  fought  with  herself  bitterly;  she 
resolved  to  wait  for  one  more  mail.  Nothing 
came  in  that  mail. 

Then  she  evaded  the  issue.  There  were  practi- 
cal reasons  for  her  return.  Her  health  was  quite 
sound  again,  she  had  been  idle  long  enough;  it 
was  time  to  get  back  to  work.  What  if  she  did 
return  to  the  city  ?  Surely  it  was  not  necessary 
to  seek  out  Joe.  It  would  be  enough  to  be  near 
him.  He  need  not  be  troubled.  So  vast  is  the 
city  that  he  would  not  know  of  her  presence. 
What  harm,  then,  in  easing  her  heart,  in  getting 
back  into  the  warmth  and  stir  of  life  ? 

With  a  young  girl's  joy  she  packed  her  trunk 
and  took  the  train  for  New  York,  and  at  sunset, 
as  she  rode  in  the  ferry  over  the  North  River,  she 
stood  bravely  out  on  deck,  faced  the  bitter  and 
salt  wind,  and  saw,  above  the  flush  of  the  waters, 
that  breathless  skyline  which,  like  the  prow  of 
some  giant  ship,  seemed  making  out  to  sea. 
Lights  twinkled  in  windows,  signal-lamps  gleamed 
red  and  green  on  the  piers,  chimneys  smoked, 
and  as  the  ferry  nosed  its  way  among  the  busy 
craft  of  the  river,  Myra  exulted.  She  was  com- 
ing back !  This  again  was  New  York,  real,  right 

216 


OF    THE    THIRTY    THOUSAND 

there,  unbudged,  her  thousand  lights  like  voices 
calling  her  home.  The  ferry  landed ;  she  hurried 
out  and  took  a  surface  car  And  how  good  the 
crowd  seemed,  how  warm  the  noise  and  the 
lights,  what  gladness  was  in  the  evening  ebb-tide 
of  people,  how  splendid  the  avenues  shone  with 
their  sparkle  and  their  shops  and  their  traffic! 
She  felt  again  the  good  hard  pave  under  her  feet. 
She  met  again  a  hundred  familiar  scenes.  The 
vast  flood  of  life  seemed  to  engulf  her,  suck  her  up 
as  if  to  say:  "Well,  you're  here  again!  Come, 
there  is  room!  Another  human  being!" 

All  about  her  was  rich  life,  endless  sights,  con- 
fusion and  variety.  The  closing  darkness  was 
pierced  with  lights,  windows  glowed,  people  were 
hurrying  home.  It  was  all  as  she  had  left  it. 
And  she  felt  then  that  the  city  was  but  Joe 
multiplied,  and  that  Joe  was  the  city.  Both 
were  cosmopolitan,  democratic,  tragic,  light- 
hearted,  many-faceted.  Both  were  careless  and 
big  and  easy  and  roomy.  Both  had  a  great 
freedom  about  them.  And  what  a  freedom  the 
city  had! — nothing  snowbound  here,  but  in- 
vitation, shops  open,  cars  gliding,  the  millions 
transported  back  and  forth,  everything  open  and 
inviting. 

She  was  glad  for  her  neat  back  room — for  gas- 
lights and  running  water — for  the  comfort  and 
ease  of  life.  She  was  glad  even  to  sit  in  the 
crowded  dining-room,  and  that  night  she  was 
glad  to  lie  abed  and  hear  the  city's  heart  pound- 

917 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

ing  about  her — that  old  noise  of  whistles  on  the 
river,  that  old  thunder  of  the  elevated  train. 

But  she  found  that  nearness  to  Joe  made  it 
impossible  to  keep  away  from  him.  Just  as  of 
old  she  had  found  excuses  for  going  up  to  the 
trembling  printery,  so  now  she  felt  that  somehow 
she  must  seek  him  out.  She  kept  wondering 
what  he  was  doing  at  that  particular  moment. 
Was  he  toiling  or  idling  ?  Was  he  with  his  mother  ? 
Did  he  still  wear  the  same  clothes,  the  same  half- 
worn  necktie,  the  same  old  lovable  gray  hat? 
What  would  he  say,  how  would  he  look,  if  she 
suddenly  confronted  him?  Myra  had  to  laugh 
softly  to  herself.  She  saw  the  wonder  in  his 
face,  the  open  mouth,  the  flashing  eyes.  Or, 
would  he  be  embarrassed?  Was  there  some 
other  woman — one  who  accorded  with  his  ideals 
— one  who  could  share  his  life-work  ?  Of  course 
she  hoped  that  there  was.  She  hoped  he  had 
found  some  one  worthy  of  him.  But  the  thought 
gave  her  intense  misery.  Why  had  he  thrown 
his  life  away  and  gone  down  into  that  foolish  and 
shoddy  neighborhood?  Surely  when  she  saw 
him  she  would  be  disappointed  by  the  changes  in 
him.  He  would  be  more  than  ever  a  fanatic — 
more  than  ever  an  unreasonable  radical.  He 
might  even  be  vulgarized  by  his  environment — 
might  have  taken  its  color,  been  leveled  down  by 
its  squalor. 

She  must  forget  the  new  Joe  and  cleave  to 
the  old  Joe.  Next  afternoon,  walking  out,  al- 

218 


OF   THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

most  involuntarily,  she  turned  west  and  entered 
the  Park.  The  trees  were  naked,  a  lacy  tracery 
of  boughs  against  the  deep- blue  sky.  She  fol- 
lowed the  curve,  she  crossed  the  roadway,  she 
climbed  the  hill  to  the  Ramble.  She  began  to 
tingle  with  the  keen,  crisp  air,  and  with  the  sense 
of  adventure.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  were  going 
to  meet  Joe — as  if  they  had  arranged  a  secret 
meeting.  She  took  the  winding  paths,  she 
passed  the  little  pool.  There  was  the  bench! 
But  empty. 

Then  she  sat  down  on  that  bench,  and  looked 
out  at  the  naked  wilderness  of  trees,  at  the  ice  in 
the  pond,  at  the  sodden  brown,  dead  grasses. 
The  place  was  wildly  forlorn  and  bare.  When 
they  had  last  been  here  the  air  had  been  tinged 
with  the  haunting  autumn,  the  leaves  had  been 
falling,  the  pool  had  been  deep  with  the  heavens. 
And  again  she  thought : 

' '  This  is  the  bench  we  sat  on ;  and  it  was  here, 
that  morning,  that  we  quarreled ;  this  is  the  little 
pond,  and  those  the  trees — but  how  changed! 
how  changed!" 

Then  as  she  sat  there  she  beheld  the  miracle 
of  color.  Behind  her,  between  the  black  tree 
trunks,  the  setting  sun  was  a  liquid  red  splendor, 
daubing  some  low  clouds  with  rosiness,  and  all 
about  her,  in  the  turn  between  day  and  night,  the 
world,  which  before  was  a  blend  in  the  strong 
light,  now  divided  into  a  myriad  sharp  tints. 
The  air  held  a  tinge  of  purple,  the  distance  a 

219 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

smoky  violet,  the  brown  of  the  grasses  was  a 
strong  brown,  the  black  of  the  trunks  intensely 
black.  Out  among  distant  trees  she  saw  a 
woman  and  child  walking,  and  the  child's  scarlet 
cloak  seemed  a  living  thing  as  it  swayed  and 
moved.  How  sharp  and  distinct  were  the  facts 
of  earth!  how  miraculously  tinted!  what  tones 
of  blue  and  red,  of  purple  and  black!  It  was  the 
sunset  singing  its  hymn  of  color,  and  it  made 
her  feel  keenly  the  mystery  and  beauty  of  life — 
the  great  moments  of  solution  and  peace — the 
strange  human  life  that  inhabits  for  a  brief  space 
this  temple  of  a  million  glories.  But  something 
was  missing,  there  was  a  great  lack,  a  wide  empti- 
ness. She  resolved  then  to  see  Joe. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  next  afternoon 
that  she  took  the  elevated  train  to  Ninth  Street 
and  then  the  crosstown  car  over  the  city.  She 
alighted  in  the  shabby  street;  she  walked  up 
to  the  entrance;  she  saw  over  the  French  win- 
dows a  big  canvas  sign,  " Strike  Headquarters." 
Within,  she  thought  she  saw  a  mass  of  people. 
This  made  her  hesitate.  She  had  expected  to 
find  him  alone.  And  somehow,  too,  the  place 
was  even  shabbier,  even  meaner  than  she  had 
expected.  And  so  she  stood  a  moment — a 
slender,  little  woman,  her  hands  in  a  muff,  a  fur 
scarf  bound  about  her  throat,  her  gray  eyes 
liquid  and  luminous,  a  rosy  tint  in  her  cheeks, 
her  lips  parted  and  releasing  a  thin  steam  in 
the  bitter  winter  air.  Overhead  the  sky  was 

220 


OF   THE   THIRTY  THOUSAND 

darkening  with  cloud-masses,  a  shriveling  wind 
dragged  the  dirty  street,  and  the  world  was 
desolate  and  gray.  The  blood  was  pulsing  in 
Myra's  temples,  her  heart  leaped,  her  breath 
panted.  And  as  she  hesitated  a  girl  passed  her, 
a  girl  about  whose  breast  was  bound  a  placard 
whereon  were  the  words  : 

JOIN  THE  STRIKE 
OF  THE  THIRTY  THOUSAND 

What  strike?  What  did  it  mean?  Was  Joe 
in  a  strike  ?  She  thought  he  had  been  editing  a 
paper.  She  had  better  not  intrude.  She  turned, 
as  if  to  fly,  and  yet  hesitated.  Her  feet  refused 
to  go;  her  heart  was  rebellious.  Only  a  wall 
divided  him  from  her.  Why  should  she  not  see 
him  ?  Why  not  a  moment's  conversation  ?  Then 
she  would  go  and  leave  him  to  his  work. 

Another  girl  passed  her  and  paused — a  girl  also 
placarded,  a  girl  with  a  strange  beauty,  some- 
what tall,  with  form  well  rounded,  with  pale  face 
full  of  the  fascination  of  burning  eagerness. 
This  girl's  eyes  were  a  clear  blue,  her  lips  set 
tight,  and  her  light-brown  hair  blew  beautifully 
about  her  cheeks.  She  was,  however,  but  thinly 
clothed,  and  her  frail  little  coat  was  short  and 
threadbare. 

She  spoke  to  Myra  —  a  rich,  sympathetic 
voice. 

"Are  you  looking  for  Mr.  Elaine?" 

221 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Yes — "  said  Myra,  almost  gasping.  "Is  he 
in?" 

"He's  always  in !"    The  girl  smiled. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter?" 

"With  him?  No!  But  come,  come  out  of 
the  cold!" 

There  was  nothing  to  do  but  follow.  The  girl 
opened  a  door  and  they  entered  the  office.  It 
was  crowded  with  girls  and  women  and  men. 
Long  benches  were  about  the  wall,  camp-stools 
filled  the  floor.  Many  were  seated;  on  two  of 
the  benches  worn-out  men  were  fast  asleep,  and 
between  the  seats  groups  of  girls  were  talking 
excitedly.  Several  lights  burned  in  the  darkening 
room,  and  Myra  saw  swiftly  the  strange  types — 
there  were  Jewish  girls,  Italian  girls,  Americans, 
in  all  sorts  of  garbs,  some  very  flashy  with  their 
"rat "-filled  hair,  their  pompadours,  their  well- 
cut  clothes,  others  almost  in  rags ;  some  tall,  some 
short,  some  rosy-cheeked,  many  frail  and  weak 
and  white.  At  a  table  in  the  rear  Giotto  was 
receiving  money  from  Italians  and  handing  out 
union  cards.  He  looked  as  if  he  hadn't  slept  for 
nights. 

Myra  was  confused.  She  felt  strangely  "out" 
of  all  this;  strangely,  as  if  she  were  intruding. 
The  smell  of  the  place  offended  her,  especially  as 
it  was  mixed  with  cheap  perfumes;  and  the 
coarse  slangy  speech  that  flashed  about  jarred  on 
her  ear.  But  at  the  same  time  she  was  suffocat- 
ing with  suspense. 

222 


OF   THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

"Where  is  he?"  she  murmured — they  were 
standing  right  within  the  door. 

"Over  there!"  the  girl  pointed. 

But  all  Myra  saw  was  a  black  semicircle  of 
girls  leaning  over  some  one  invisible  near  the 
window. 

"He's  at  his  desk,  and  he's  talking  with  a 
committee.  You'd  better  wait  till  he's  finished !' ' 

This  news  choked  Myra.  Wait?  Wait  here? 
Be  shut  out  like  this  ?  She  was  as  petulant  as  a 
child;  she  felt  like  shedding  tears. 

But  the  girl  at  her  side  seemed  to  be  playing 
the  part  of  hostess,  and  she  had  to  speak. 

"What  strike  is  this?" 

The  girl  was  amazed. 

1 '  What  strike !     Don't  you  know  ?" 

Myra  smiled. 

"No — I  don't.     I've  been  out  of  the  city." 

"It's  the  shirtwaist-makers'  strike." 

"Oh!     I  see!"  said  Myra,  mechanically. 

"It's  the  biggest  woman's  strike  that  ever  was. 
Thirty  thousand  out — Italians,  Jews,  and  Ameri- 
cans." 

"Yes?"  Myra  was  not  listening. 

Suddenly  then  the  door  was  flung  open  and  a 
well-dressed  girl  rushed  in,  crying  shrilly: 

"Say,  girls,  what  do  you  think?" 

A  group  gathered  about  her. 

' '  What's  up  ?  What's  the  news  ?  Don't  stand 
there  all  day!" 

The  girl  spoke  with  exultant  indignation. 
223 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I've  been  arrested!" 

"Arrested!     You!" 

"And  I  didn't  do  nothing,  either — I  was  good. 
What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  The  judge  fined  me 
ten  dollars.  Well,  let  me  tell  you,  I'm  going  to 
get  something  for  those  ten  dollars !  I'm  going  to 
raise— hell!" 

' '  You  bet !    Ain't  it  a  shame  ?' ' 

And  the  group  swallowed  her  up. 

Myra  wondered  why  the  girl  had  been  arrested, 
and  was  surprised  at  her  lack  of  shame  and 
humiliation. 

But  she  had  not  much  time  for  thought.  The 
door  opened  again,  and  Sally  Heffer  entered, 
sparkling,  neat,  eyes  clear. 

At  once  cries  arose: 

"Here's  Sal!  Hello,  Sally  Heffer!  Where 
have  you  been  ?"  Girls  crowded  about.  ' '  What's 
the  news  ?  Where  did  you  come  from  ?" 

Where  had  Myra  heard  that  name  before  ? 

Sally  spoke  with  delicious  fastidiousness. 

"I've  been  to  Vassar." 

"Vassar  College?" 

"Yes,  Vassar  College— raised  fifty  dollars !" 

"Sally's  it,  all  right!  Say,  Sal,  how  did  they 
treat  you?  Stuck  up?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Sally.  "They  were  ever  so 
good  to  me.  They're  lovely  girls — kind,  sweet, 
sympathetic.  They  wanted  to  help  and  they 
were  very  respectful,  but" — she  threw  up  her 
hands — "oh,  they're  ignorant!" 

224 


OF   THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter.  Myra  was 
shocked.  A  slum  girl  to  speak  like  this  of  Vassar 
students  ?  She  noticed  then,  with  a  queer  pang, 
that  Sally  made  for  the  window  group,  who  at 
once  made  a  place  for  her.  Sally  had  easy  access 
to  Joe. 

The  girl  at  her  side  was  speaking  again. 

"You've  no  idea  what  this  strike  means. 
There's  some  rich  women  interested  in  it — they 
work  right  with  us,  hold  mass-meetings,  march 
in  the  streets — they're  wonderful.  And  some  of 
the  big  labor-leaders  and  even  some  of  the  big 
lawyers  are  helping.  There's  one  big  lawyer 
been  giving  all  his  time.  You  see,  we're  having 
trouble  with  the  police." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Myra,  though  she  didn't  see 
at  all,  and  neither  did  she  care.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  could  not  wait  another  in- 
stant. She  must  either  go,  or  step  over  to  his 
desk. 

"Is  he  still  so  busy?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  he  is,"  said  the  girl.  "Do  you  know 
him  personally?" 

Myra  laughed  softly. 

"A  little." 

"Then  you  heard  how  he  was  hurt?" 

"Hurt!"  gasped  Myra.  Her  heart  seemed  to 
grow  small,  and  it  was  pierced  by  a  sharp  needle 
of  pain. 

"Yes,  there  was  a  riot  here — the  men  came  in 
and  smashed  everything." 
15  225 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"And  Mr.  Elaine?  Tell  me!"  The  words 
came  in  a  blurt. 

"Had  his  arm  broken  and  his  head  was  all 
bloody." 

Myra  felt  dizzy,  faint. 

"Bathe's— better?" 

"Oh,  he's  all  right  now." 

"When  did  this  happen?" 

"About  six  weeks  ago!" 

Six  weeks!  That  was  shortly  after  the  last 
letter  came.  Myra  was  suffering  agony,  and  her 
face  went  very  pale. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  she  breathed. 

"Oh,  he  called  some  strikers  traitors,  and 
they  came  down  and  broke  in.  It's  lucky  he 
wasn't  killed." 

He  had  suffered,  he  had  been  in  peril  of  his  life, 
while  she  was  resting  in  the  peace  of  the  country. 
So  this  was  a  strike,  and  in  this  Joe  was  con- 
cerned. She  looked  about  the  busy  room;  she 
noticed  anew  the  sleeping  men  and  the  toiling 
Giotto;  and  suddenly  she  was  interested.  She 
was  wrenched,  as  it  were,  from  her  world  into  his. 
She  felt  in  the  heart  of  a  great  tragedy  of  life. 
And  all  the  time  she  kept  saying  over  and  over 
again : 

"His  arm  was  broken!  his  head  bloody!  and  I 
wasn't  here!  I  wasn't  at  his  side!" 

And  she  had  thought  in  her  country  isolation 
that  life  in  the  city  wasn't  real.  What  a  moment 
that  must  have  been  when  Joe  faced  the  rioters — 

226 


OF    THE   THIRTY  THOUSAND 

when  they  rushed  upon  him — when  he  might 
have  been  killed!  And  instead  of  deterring  him 
from  his  work,  here  he  was  in  the  thick  of  it, 
braving,  possibly,  unspeakable  dangers.  Then, 
glancing  about,  it  seemed  to  her  that  these  girls 
and  men  were  a  part  of  his  drama ;  he  gave  them 
a  new  reality.  This  was  life,  pulsing,  immediate, 
tragic.  She  must  go  to  him — she  mustn't  delay 
longer. 

She  took  a  few  steps  forward,  and  at  almost 
the  same  moment  the  girls  about  Joe  left  him, 
scattering  about  the  room.  Then  she  saw  him. 
And  what  a  spectacle!  He  was  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, his  hair  was  more  tousled  than  ever,  and 
his  face  was  gray — the  most  tragic  face  she  had 
ever  seen — gray,  sunken,  melancholy,  worn,  as  if 
he  bore  the  burden  of  the  world.  But  in  one 
hand  he  held  a  pen,  and  in  the  other — a  ham 
sandwich.  It  was  a  big  sandwich,  and  every  few 
moments  he  took  a  big  bite,  as  he  scratched  on. 
Myra's  heart  was  wrung  with  love  and  pity,  with 
remorse  and  fondness,  and  mainly  with  the  tragi- 
comedy of  his  face  and  the  sandwich. 

She  stood  over  him  a  moment,  breathless, 
panting,  her  throat  full  of  blood,  it  seemed. 
Then  she  stooped  a  little  and  whispered : 

"Joe." 

He  wheeled  round;  he  looked  up;  his  gray 
face  seemed  to  grow  grayer;  his  lips  parted — he 
was  more  than  amazed.  He  was  torn  away,  as  it 
were,  from  all  business  of  life. 

227 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Why,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  "it's  you, 
Myra!" 

"Yes"— tears  stood  in  her  eyes— "it's  I." 

He  surveyed  her  up  and  down,  and  then  their 
eyes  met.  He  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair. 

"You — you — "  he  murmured.  "And  how 
well  you  look,  how  strong,  how  fresh !  Sit  down ! 
sit  down!" 

She  took  the  seat,  trembling.  She  leaned  for- 
ward. 

"But  you — you  are  killing  yourself,  Joe." 

He  smiled  sadly. 

"It's  serious  business,  Myra." 

She  gazed  at  him,  and  spoke  hard. 

"Is  there  no  end  to  it?  Aren't  you  going  to 
rest,  ever?" 

"End?  No  end  now.  The  strike  must  be 
won." 

He  was  trying  to  pull  himself  together.  He 
gave  a  short  laugh;  he  sat  up. 

"So  you're  back  from  the  country." 

"Yes,  I'm  back." 

"To  stay?" 

"To  stay." 

"You're  cured,  then?" 

"Yes,"  she  smiled,  "cured  of  many  things.  I 
like  the  city  better  than  I  thought!" 

He  gave  her  a  sharp  look. 

"So!"  Then  his  voice  came  with  utter  weari- 
ness: "Well,  the  city's  a  queer  place,  Myra. 
Things  happen  here." 

228 


OF  THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

Somehow  she  felt  that  he  was  standing  her  off. 
Something  had  crept  in  between  them,  some 
barrier,  some  wall.  He  had  already  emerged 
from  the  shock  of  the  meeting.  What  if  there 
were  things  in  his  life  far  more  important  than 
this  meeting  ?  Myra  tried  to  be  brave. 

"I  just  wanted  to  see  you — see  the  place — see 
how  things  were  getting  on." 

Joe  laughed  softly. 

''Things  are  getting  on.  Circulation's  up  to 
fifteen  thousand — due  to  the  strike." 

"How  so?" 

"We  got  out  a  strike  edition — and  the  girls 
peddled  it  around  town,  and  lots  subscribed. 
It's  given  the  paper  a  big  boost." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  Myra  found  herself 
saying. 

"  You  glad  ?"  If  only  his  voice  hadn't  been  so 
weary!  "That's  strange,  Myra." 

"It  is  strange!"  she  said,  her  eyes  suffused 
again.  His  gray,  tragic  face  seemed  to  be  work- 
ing on  the  very  strings  of  her  heart.  She  longed 
so  to  help  him,  to  heal  him,  to  breathe  joy  and 
strength  into  him. 

"Joe!"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  again. 

"Yes,  Myra." 

"Oh— I-       She  paused. 

He  smiled. 

"Say  it!" 

"Isn't  there  some  way  I  can  help  ?" 
229 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

A  strange  expression  came  to  his  face,  of  sur- 
prise, of  wonder. 

"Few  help?" 

-Yes— I—" 

"Mr.  Blaine!  Mr.  Elaine!"  Some  one  across 
the  room  was  calling.  "There's  an  employer 
here  to  see  you!" 

Joe  leaped  up,  took  Myra's  hand,  and  spoke 
hastily. 

"Wait  and  meet  my  mother.  And  come 
again — sometime.  Sometime  when  I'm  not  so 
rushed!" 

And  he  was  gone — gone  out  of  the  room. 

Myra  arose,  still  warm  with  the  touch  of  his 
hand — for  his  hand  was  almost  fever- warm.  All 
that  she  knew  was  that  he  had  suffered  and  was 
suffering,  and  that  she  must  help.  She  was 
burning  now  with  an  eagerness  to  learn  about 
the  strike,  to  understand  what  it  was  that  so  de- 
pressed and  enslaved  him,  what  it  was  that  was 
slowly  killing  him.  Her  old  theories  met  the 
warm  clasp  of  life  and  vanished.  She  forgot  her 
viewpoint  and  her  delicacy.  Life  was  too  big  for 
her  shallow  philosophy.  It  seized  upon  her  now 
and  absorbed  her. 

She  strode  back  to  the  young  girl,  who  she 
learned  later  was  named  Rhona  Hemlitz,  and 
who  was  but  seventeen  years  old. 

She  said:  "Tell  me  about  the  strike!  Can't 
we  sit  down  together  and  talk?  Have  you 
time?" 

230 


OF    THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

"I  have  a  little  time,"  said  Rhona,  eagerly. 
"We  can  sit  here!" 

So  they  sat  side  by  side  and  Rhona  told  her. 
Rhona' s  whole  family  was  engaged  in  sweat- 
work.  They  lived  in  a  miserable  tenement  over 
in  Hester  Street,  where  her  mother  had  been 
toiling  from  dawn  until  midnight  with  the  needle, 
with  her  tiny  brother  helping  to  sew  on  buttons, 
"finishing"  daily  a  dozen  pairs  of  pants,  and 
making — thirty  cents. 

Myra  was  amazed. 

"Thirty  cents — dawn  till  midnight!  Impossi- 
ble!" 

And  then  her  father — who  worked  all  day  in  a 
sweatshop. 

"And  you — what  did  you  do?"  asked  Myra. 

Rhona  told  her.  She  had  worked  in  Zandler's 
shirtwaist  factory — bending  over  a  power-ma- 
chine, whose  ten  needles  made  forty-four  hundred 
stitches  a  minute.  So  fast  they  flew  that  a 
break  in  needle  or  thread  ruined  a  shirtwaist; 
hence,  never  did  she  allow  her  eyes  to  wander, 
never  during  a  day  of  ten  to  fourteen  hours, 
while,  continuously,  the  needles  danced  up  and 
down  like  flashes  of  steel  or  lightning.  At  times 
it  seemed  as  if  the  machine  were  running  away 
from  her  and  she  had  to  strain  her  body  to  keep 
it  back.  And  so,  when  she  reeled  home  late  at 
night,  her  smarting  eyes  saw  sharp  showers  of 
needles  in  the  air  every  time  she  winked,  and  her 
back  ached  intolerably. 

231 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I  never  dreamt,"  said  Myra,  "that  people 
had  to  work  like  that!" 

"Oh,  that's  not  all!"  said  Rhona,  and  went  on. 
Her  wages  were  rarely  over  five  dollars  a  week, 
and  for  months,  during  slack  season,  she  was  out 
of  work — came  daily  to  the  factory,  and  had  to 
sit  on  a  bench  and  wait,  often  fruitlessly.  And 
then  the  sub-contracting  system,  whereunder  the 
boss  divided  the  work  among  lesser  bosses  who 
each  ran  a  gang  of  toilers,  speeding  them  up 
mercilessly,  "sweating"  them!  And  so  the 
young  girls,  sixteen  to  twenty-five  years  old, 
were  sapped  of  health  and  joy  and  womanhood, 
and,  "as  Mr.  Joe  wrote,  the  future  is  robbed  of 
wives  and  mothers!" 

Myra  was  amazed.  She  had  a  new  glimpse  of 
the  woman  problem.  She  saw  now  how  millions 
of  women  were  being  fed  into  the  machine  of 
industry,  and  that  thus  the  home  was  passing, 
youth  was  filched  of  its  glory,  and  the  race  was 
endangered.  This  uprising  of  the  women,  then, 
meant  more  than  she  dreamed — meant  the 
attempt  to  save  the  race  by  freeing  the  women 
from  this  bondage.  Had  they  not  a  right  then 
to  go  out  in  the  open,  to  strike,  to  lead  marches, 
to  sway  meetings,  to  take  their  places  with 
men? 

Such  thoughts,  confused  and  swift,  came  to 
her,  and  she  asked  Rhona  what  had  happened. 
How  had  the  strike  started  ?  First,  said  Rhona, 
there  was  the  strike  at  Marrin's — a  spark  that 

232 


OF   THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

set  off  the  other  places.  Then  at  Zandler's 
conditions  had  become  so  bad  that  one  morning 
Jake  Hedig,  her  boss,  a  young,  pale-faced,  black- 
haired  man,  suddenly  arose  and  shouted  in  a 
loud  voice  throughout  the  shop : 

"I  am  sick  of  slave-driving.  I  resign  my 
job." 

The  boss,  and  some  of  the  little  bosses,  set  upon 
him,  struck  him,  and  dragged  him  out,  but  as  he 
went  he  shouted  lustily : 

"Brothers  and  sisters,  are  you  going  to  sit  by 
your  machines  and  see  a  fellow-worker  used  this 
way?" 

The  machines  stopped:  the  hundreds  of  girls 
and  the  handful  of  men  marched  out  simultane- 
ously. Then,  swiftly  the  sedition  had  spread 
about  the  city  until  a  great  night  in  Cooper 
Union,  when,  after  speeches  of  peace  and  con- 
ciliation, one  of  the  girls  had  risen,  demanded 
and  secured  the  floor,  and  moved  a  general  strike. 
Her  motion  was  unanimously  carried,  and  when 
the  chairman  cried,  in  Yiddish:  "Do  you  mean 
faith?  Will  you  take  the  old  Jewish  oath?"  up 
went  two  thousand  hands,  with  one  great  chorus : 

"If  I  turn  traitor  to  the  cause  I  now  pledge, 
may  this  hand  wither  from  the  arm  I  now 
raise." 

By  this  oath  Rhona  was  bound.  And  so  were 
thirty  thousand  others — Americans,  Italians, 
Jews — and  with  them  were  some  of  the  up-town 
women,  some  of  the  women  of  wealth,  some  of 

233 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

the  big  lawyers  and  the  labor-leaders  and  re- 
formers. 

"Some  of  the  up-town  women!"  thought  Myra. 
She  was  amazed  to  find  herself  so  interested,  so 
wrought  up.  And  she  felt  as  if  she  had  stumbled 
upon  great  issues  and  great  struggles;  she  real- 
ized, dimly,  that  first  moment,  that  this  strike  was 
involved  in  something  larger,  something  vaster — 
swallowed  up  in  the  advance  of  democracy,  in  the 
advance  of  woman.  All  the  woman  in  her  re- 
sponded to  the  call  to  arms. 

And  she  was  discovering  now  what  Joe  had 
meant  by  his  "crisis" — what  he  had  meant  by 
his  fight  for  "more  democracy;  a  better  and 
richer  life;  a  superber  people  on  earth. "  It  was 
a  real  thing.  She  burned  now  to  help  Joe — she 
burned  to  do  for  him — to  enter  into  his  tragic 
struggle — to  be  of  use  to  him. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?"  she  asked 
Rhona. 

' '  Now  ?     Now  I  must  go  picketing . ' ' 

"What's  picketing?" 

' '  March  up  and  down  in  front  of  a  factory  and 
try  to  keep  scabs  out." 

"What  are  scabs?"  asked  ignorant  Myra. 

Rhona  was  amazed. 

"You  don't  even  know  that?  Why,  a  scab's 
a  girl  who  tries  to  take  a  striker's  job  and  so 
ruin  the  strike.  She  takes  the  bread  out  of  our 
mouths." 

"But  how  can  you  stop  her?" 
234 


OF   THE    THIRTY  THOUSAND 

1  'Talk  to  her!  We're  not  allowed  to  use 
violence." 

"How  do  you  do  it?" 

Rhona  looked  at  the  eager  face,  the  luminous 
gray  eyes. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  it?" 

"Yes,  I  would." 

"But  it's  dangerous." 

"How  so?" 

"Police  and  thugs,  bums  hanging  around." 

"And  you  girls  aren't  afraid?" 

Rhona  smiled. 

"We  don't  show  it,  anyway.  You  see,  we're 
bound  to  win." 

Myra's  eyes  flashed. 

"Well,  if  you're  not  afraid,  I  guess  I  haven't 
any  right  to  be.  May  I  come  ?" 

Rhona  looked  at  her  with  swift  understanding. 

"Yes,  please  do  come!" 

Myra  rose.  She  took  a  last  look  about  the 
darkening  room;  saw  once  more  the  sleeping 
men,  the  toiling  Giotto,  the  groups  of  girls. 
Something  tragic  hung  in  the  air.  She  seemed 
to  breathe  bigger,  gain  in  stature,  expand.  She 
was  going  to  meet  the  test  of  these  newer  women. 
She  was  going  to  identify  herself  with  their  vast 
struggle. 

And  looking  once  more,  she  sought  Joe,  but 
could  not  find  him.  How  pleased  he  would  be  to 
know  that  she  was  doing  this — doing  it  largely 
for  him — because  she  wanted  to  smooth  out  that 

235 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

gray  face,  and  lay  her  cheek  against  its  lost 
wrinkles,  and  put  her  arm  about  his  neck,  and 
heal  him. 

Tears  dimmed  her  eyes.  She  took  Rhona's 
arm  and  they  stepped  out  into  the  bleak  street. 
Wind  whipped  their  faces  like  quick-flicked 
knives.  They  walked  close  together. 

"Is  it  far?"  asked  Myra. 

"Quite  far.     It's  over  on  Great  Jones  Street!" 

And  so  Myra  went,  quite  lost  in  the  cyclone  of 
life. 


VIII 

THE    ARREST 

THEY  gained  the  corner  of  Great  Jones 
Street — one  of  those  dim  byways  of  trade 
that  branch  off  from  the  radiant  avenues.  As 
they  turned  in  the  street,  they  met  a  bitter  wind 
that  was  blowing  the  pavement  clean  as  polished 
glass,  and  the  dark  and  closing  day  was  set  off 
sharply  by  the  intense  lamps  and  shop-lights. 
Here  and  there  at  a  window  a  clerk  pressed  his 
face  against  the  cold  pane  and  looked  down  into 
the  cheerless  twilight,  and  many  toilers  made  the 
hard  pavement  echo  with  their  fast  steps  as  they 
hurried  homeward. 

''There  they  are,"  said  Rhona. 

Two  girls,  both  placarded,  came  up  to  them. 
One  of  them,  a  thin  little  skeleton,  pitiably 
ragged  in  dress,  with  hollow  eyes  and  white  face, 
was  coughing  in  the  cuff  of  the  wind.  She  was 
plainly  a  consumptive — a  little  wisp  of  a  girl. 
She  spoke  brokenly,  with  a  strong  Russian  ac- 
cent. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  yet,  Rhona.  I  get  so 
cold  my  bones  ready  to  crack." 

She  shivered  and  coughed.  Rhona  spoke  softly. 
237 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Fannie,  you  go  right  home,  and  let  your 
mother  give  you  a  good  drink  of  hot  lemonade 
with  whiskey  in  it.  And  take  a  foot-bath,  too." 

Fannie  coughed  again. 

"Don't  you  tell  me,  Rhona.  Look  out  for 
yourself.  There  gets  trouble  yet  on  this  street." 

Myra  drew  nearer,  a  dull  feeling  in  her  breast. 
Rhona  spoke  easily: 

"None  of  the  men  said  anything  or  did  any- 
thing, did  they?" 

"Well,  they  say  things;  they  make  angry 
faces,  and  big  fists,  Rhona.  Better  be  careful." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"By  Zandler's  doorway.  They  get  afraid  of 
the  cold." 

Rhona  laughed  softly,  and  put  an  arm  about 
the  frail  body. 

"Now  you  run  home,  and  don't  worry  about 
me!  I  can  take  care  of  myself.  I  expect  an- 
other girl,  anyway." 

"Good-night,  Rhona." 

"Good-night — get  to  bed,  and  don't  forget  the 
hot  lemonade!" 

The  two  girls  departed,  blowing,  as  it  were, 
about  the  corner  and  out  of  sight.  Rhona 
turned  to  Myra,  whose  face  was  pallid. 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  back,  Miss  Craig? 
You  see,  I'm  used  to  these  things." 

"No,"  said  Myra,  in  a  low  voice.  "I've  come 
to  stay." 

She  was  thinking  of  tiny  Fannie.  What! 
238 


THE   ARREST 

Could  she  not  measure  to  a  little  consumptive 
Russian  ? 

"All  right,"  said  Rhona.     "Let's  begin!" 

They  started  to  walk  quietly  up  and  down 
before  the  darkened  loft  building — up  fifty  yards, 
down  fifty  yards.  A  stout  policeman  slouched 
under  a  street-lamp,  swinging  his  club  with  a 
heavily  gloved  hand,  and  in  the  shadow  of  the 
loft-building  entrance  Rhona  pointed  out  to 
Myra  several  ill-looking  private  detectives  who 
danced  up  and  down  on  their  toes,  blew  their 
hands,  smoked  cigarettes,  and  kept  tab  of  the 
time. 

"It's  they,"  whispered  Rhona,  "who  make  all 
the  trouble.  Some  of  them  are  ex-convicts  and 
thugs.  They  are  a  rough  lot." 

"But  why  is  it  allowed?"  asked  Myra. 

Rhona  laughed. 

"Why  is  anything  allowed?" 

The  wind  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more 
cruel.  Myra  felt  her  ear-lobes  swelling,  the  tip 
of  her  nose  tingled  and  her  feet  and  hands  were 
numb.  But  they  held  on  quietly  in  the  darken- 
ing day.  It  all  seemed  simple  enough — this 
walking  up  and  down.  So  this  was  picketing ! 

Myra  spoke  softly  as  they  turned  and  walked 
west. 

"Have  many  of  the  girls  been  arrested?" 

"Oh  yes,  a  lot  of  them." 

"Have  they  been  disorderly?" 

"Some  of  them  have.  It's  hard  to  keep  cool, 
239 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

with  scabs  egging  you  on  and  calling  you  cow- 
ards." 

"And  what  happens  to  them  if  they  are  ar- 
rested?" 

"Oh,  fined— five,  ten  dollars." 

They  turned  under  the  lamp;  the  policeman 
rose  and  sank  on  one  foot  after  the  other;  they 
walked  quietly  back.  Then,  as  they  passed  the 
doorway  of  the  loft  building,  one  of  the  young 
men  stepped  forward  into  the  light.  He  was  a 
square-set,  heavy  fellow,  with  long,  square,  pro- 
truding jaw,  and  little  monkey  eyes.  His  bear- 
ing was  menacing.  He  stepped  in  front  of  the 
girls,  who  stopped  still  and  awaited  him.  Myra 
felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  head,  and  a  feeling  of 
dizziness  made  her  tremble.  Then  the  man 
spoke  sharply: 

"Say,  you — you  can't  go  by  here." 

Myra  gazed  at  him  as  if  she  were  hypnotized, 
but  Rhona' s  eyes  flashed. 

"Why  not?" 

"Don't  jaw  me,"  said  the  man.  "But — clear 
out!" 

Rhona  tried  to  speak  naturally. 

"Isn't  this  a  public  street?  Haven't  I  a  right 
to  walk  up  and  down  with  my  friend  ?" 

Then  Myra  felt  as  if  she  were  struck  by  light- 
ning, or  as  if  something  sacred  in  her  womanhood 
had  been  outraged. 

With  a  savage  growl:  "You  little  sheeny!"  the 
man  suddenly  struck  out  a  fist  and  hit  Rhona  in 

240 


THE   ARREST 

the  chest.  She  lurched,  doubled,  and  fell,  saving 
herself  with  her  hands.  Myra  did  not  move,  but 
a  shock  of  horror  went  through  her. 

The  two  other  young  men  in  the  doorway  came 
forward,  and  home-goers  paused,  drew  close, 
looked  on  curiously  and  silently.  One  nudged 
another. 

1  'What's  up?" 

"Don't  know!" 

The  thug  muttered  under  his  breath: 

' '  Pull  her  up  by  her  hair;  we'll  run  her  in !" 

But  Rhona  had  scrambled  to  her  feet.  She 
was  too  wild  to  cry  or  speak.  She  glanced 
around  for  help,  shunning  the  evil  monkey  eyes. 
Then  she  saw  the  policeman  under  the  lamp. 
He  was  still  nonchalantly  swinging  his  club. 

She  gave  a  gasping  sob,  pushing  away  Myra's 
offered  help,  and  struggled  over  to  him.  He 
did  not  move.  She  stood,  until  he  glanced  at  her. 
Then  she  caught  his  eye,  and  held  him,  and 
spoke  with  strange  repression,  as  the  crowd  drew 
about  them.  Myra  was  in  that  crowd,  dazed, 
outraged,  helpless.  She  heard  Rhona  speaking: 

"Do  you  think  a  man  has  any  right  to  strike  a 
girl?" 

He  did  not  answer ;  she  still  held  his  eyes. 

' '  Do  you  think  a  man  has  any  right  to  strike  a 
girl?" 

Still  he  said  nothing,  and  the  crowd  became 
fascinated   by  the   fixity  of  gaze  of   the   two. 
Rhona' s  voice  sharpened: 
16  241 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Do  you  think  a  man  has  any  right  to  strike  a 


The  officer  cleared  his  throat  and  looked  away. 

"Oh,"  he  muttered  carelessly,  "it's  all  right. 
You  people  are  always  kicking,  anyway." 

Rhona'  s  voice  rose. 

'  '  I  ask  you  to  arrest  him." 

Several  in  the  crowd  backed  this  with  mutter- 
ings.  The  policeman  twirled  his  stick. 

"Oh,  all  right!"  he  called.  "Come  along, 
Blondy!" 

Blondy,  the  thug,  came  up  grinning. 

"Pinching  me,  John  ?"  he  asked. 

"Sure."  The  policeman  smiled,  and  then 
seized  Blondy  and  Rhona  each  by  an  arm  and 
started  to  march  them  toward  Broadway.  Myra 
followed  wildly.  Her  mind  was  in  a  whirl  and 
the  bitter  tears  blurred  her  eyes.  What  could 
she  do?  How  could  she  help?  She  sensed  in 
the  policeman's  word  a  menace  to  Rhona.  Rhona 
was  in  trouble,  and  she,  Myra,  was  as  good  as 
useless  in  this  crisis.  She  suddenly  understood 
the  helplessness  of  the  poor  and  the  weak,  espe- 
cially the  poor  and  weak  women.  What  could 
they  do  against  this  organized  iniquity  ?  Against 
the  careless  and  cruel  world  ?  It  was  all  right  for 
gentlewomen  in  gentle  environment  to  keep  to 
the  old  ideals  of  womanhood  —  to  stay  at  home 
and  delegate  their  citizenship  to  the  men.  But 
those  who  were  sucked  into  the  vortex  of  the 
rough  world,  what  of  these?  Were  they  not 

242 


THE    ARREST 

right  in  their  attempts  to  organize,  to  rebel,  to 
fight  in  the  open,  to  secure  a  larger  share  of  free- 
dom and  power? 

But  if  these  were  Myra's  feelings  and  thoughts 
— a  sense  of  outrage,  of  being  trampled  on — they 
were  little  things  compared  with  the  agony  in 
Rhona's  breast.  A  growing  and  much-pleased 
crowd  surrounded  her,  flinging  remarks : 

"Lock-steps  for  yours!  Hello,  Mamie!  Oh, 
you  kid!  Now  will  you  be  good!  Carrie,  go 
home  and  wash  the  dishes!" 

And  one  boy  darted  up  and  snapped  the  pla- 
card from  her  waist.  The  crowd  laughed,  but 
Rhona  was  swallowing  bitter  tears. 

They  passed  down  Broadway  a  block  or  two, 
and  then  turned  west.  Brilliant  light  from  the 
shop  windows  fell  upon  the  moving  scene — the 
easy-going  men,  the  slouching,  shrill  boys,  and  the 
girl  with  her  pale  set  face  and  uncertain  steps. 
All  the  world  was  going  home  to  supper,  and 
Rhona  felt  strangely  that  she  was  now  an  exile 
— torn  by  the  roots  from  her  warm  life  to 
go  on  a  lonely  adventure  against  the  powers  of 
darkness.  She  had  lost  her  footing  in  the  world 
and  was  slipping  into  the  night.  She  felt  singu- 
larly helpless;  her  very  rage  and  rebellion  made 
her  feel  frail  and  unequal  to  the  task.  To  be 
struck  down  in  the  street!  To  be  insulted  by  a 
crowd!  She  had  hard  work  to  hold  her  head 
erect  and  keep  back  the  bitter  sobs. 

Up  the  darkened  street  they  went,  the  crowd 
243 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

gradually  falling  away.  And  suddenly  they 
paused  before  the  two  green  lamps  of  the  new 
station-house,  and  then  in  a  moment  they  had 
vanished  through  the  doorway. 

Myra  rushed  up,  panting,  to  a  policeman  who 
stood  on  the  steps. 

"I  want  to  go  in — I'm  with  her." 
"Can't  do  it,  lady.     She's  under  arrest." 
1 '  Not  she, "  cried  Myra.     ' '  The  man . ' ' 
"Oh,  we'll  see.     You  run  along — keep  out  of 
trouble!" 

Myra  turned,  confused,  weak.     She  questioned 
a  passer-by  about  the  location  of  Ninth  Street. 
* '  Up  Broadway — seven  or  eight  blocks !" 
She  started ;  she  hurried ;  her  feet  were  winged 
with    desperate    fear.     What    could    be    done? 
How  help  Rhona?     Surely  Joe — Joe  could  do 
something.     He  would  know — she  would  hasten 
to  him  and  get  his  aid.     That  at  least  she  could 
do. 

Now  and  then  a  bitter  sob  escaped  her.  She 
felt  that  she  had  lost  her  self-respect  and  her 
pride.  Like  a  coward  she  had  watched  Rhona 
attacked,  had  not  even  raised  her  voice,  had  not 
even  attempted  interference.  They  might  have 
listened  to  a  well-dressed  woman,  a  woman  of 
refinement.  And  she  had  done  nothing — just 
followed  the  crowd,  nursing  her  wounded  pride. 
She  began  to  feel  that  the  world  was  a  big  place, 
and  that  those  without  money  or  position  are  at 
the  mercy  of  the  powerful.  She  began  to  revise 

244 


THE   ARREST 

her  opinion  of  America,  more  keenly  than  ever 
she  understood  Joe's  passion  for  more  democracy. 
And  she  had  a  sense,  too,  that  she  had  never 
really  known  life — that  her  narrow  existence  had 
touched  life  at  but  a  few  minor  points — and  that 
the  great  on-struggle  of  the  world,  the  vast  life 
of  the  race,  the  million-eddying  evolution  were  all 
outside  her  limits.  Now  she  was  feeling  the  edge 
of  new  existences.  The  knowledge  humbled, 
almost  humiliated  her.  She  wondered  that  Joe 
had  ever  thought  well  of  her,  had  ever  been  con- 
tent to  share  his  life  with  her. 

Driven  by  these  thoughts  and  by  her  fear  and 
her  apprehension  for  Rhona's  safety,  she  plunged 
west,  borne  by  the  wind,  buffeted,  beaten,  blown 
along.  The  lights  behind  the  French  windows 
were  like  beacons  in  a  storm.  She  staggered  into 
the  hall,  entered  the  room.  Her  hair  was  wild 
about  her  face,  her  cheeks  pale,  her  eyes  burning. 

The  room  was  still  crowrded,  intensely  busy. 
She  noticed  nothing,  but  pushed  her  way  to  Joe's 
desk.  He  was  talking  with  two  girls. 

She  confronted  him. 

"Joe!" 

He  lifted  his  gray,  tragic  face,  amazed. 

"You  still  here?" 

It  was  as  if  he  had  forgotten  her.  But  Myra 
was  not  now  thinking  of  herself.  She  spoke, 
breathlessly : 

"Joe,  I  think  Rhona  Hemlitz  is  in  trouble." 

"How  so?" 

245 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"She  was  knocked  down  by  a  thug,  and  she 
had  him  arrested,  but  I'm  afraid  she's  arrested." 

A  dangerous  light  came  into  Joe's  eyes. 

"All  right!  All  right!  Where  did  this  hap- 
pen?" 

"On  Great  Jones  Street." 

"Well  and  good,"  he  muttered. 

"But  isn't  there  anything  to  do?"  cried 
Myra. 

"Why,  if  she's  not  arrested,  she'll  come  here 
and  report,  and  if  she  doesn't  come  I'll  go  over  to 
the  Night  Court  at  nine  this  evening." 

"I  must  go  with  you,"  cried  Myra. 

"You?"  He  looked  at  her,  and  then  suddenly 
he  asked:  "But  how  did  you  come  to  hear  of 
this?" 

"I  was  picketing  with  her." 

A  great  change  came  over  Joe's  face,  as  if  he 
beheld  a  miracle. 

"Myra!     So  you  have  been  picketing!" 

Her  face  went  very  white. 

* '  Don't !  Don't !' '  she  breathed  painfully,  sink- 
ing in  a  chair.  "I  was  a  coward,  Joe — I  didn't 
do  anything  to  help  her!" 

"But  what  could  you  do?" 

"Oh,  something,  anything." 

He  glanced  at  her  keenly,  and  a  swift  smile  lit 
his  features.  He  spoke  very  gently. 

"Myra,  you  step  in  back  to  my  mother.  Take 
supper  with  her.  Keep  her  company.  I'm 
afraid  I'm  neglecting  mother  these  days." 

246 


THE   ARREST 

"And  the  Night  Court?''  Myra  was  swallowing 
sobs. 

' '  I'll  look  in  for  you  at  nine  o'clock." 

"Thank  you,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  thank 
you." 

It  was  something  that  he  thought  her  worthy. 


IX 

RHONA 

WHEN  the  policeman  with  Rhona  and  Blon- 
dy  passed  up  the  steps  between  the  green 
lamps  of  the  new  station-house,  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  long  room  whose  warmth  was  a  fine 
relief.  They  breathed  more  easily,  loosened  their 
coats,  and  then  stepped  forward.  A  police 
sergeant  sat  behind  a  railing,  writing  at  a  low 
desk,  a  low-hanging,  green-shaded  electric  bulb 
above  him. 

Rhona  felt  that  she  had  to  speak  quickly  and 
get  in  her  word  before  the  others.  She  tried  to 
be  calm,  but  a  dull  sob  went  with  the  words. 

''That  man  struck  me  —  knocked  me  down. 
I've  had  him  arrested." 

The  sergeant  did  not  look  up.  He  went  on 
writing.  Finally  he  spoke,  easily: 

"True,  Officer?" 

The  policeman  cleared  his  throat. 

"The  other  way  round,  Sergeant.  She  struck 
the  man" 

Rhona  breathed  hard,  a  feeling  in  her  breast  of 
her  heart  breaking .  She  gasped : 

'  *  That's  not  true.  He  struck  me — he  struck  me. " 
248 


RHONA 

The  sergeant  glanced  up. 

"What's  your  name?" 

Rhona  could  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then, 
faintly : 

"  Rhona  Hemlitz." 

"Age?" 

-Seventeen." 

"Address?" 

—  Hester  Street." 

-Occupation?" 

' '  Shirtwaist-maker." 

-Oh!"  he  whistled  slightly.     -Striker?" 

-Yes." 

-Picketing?" 

-Yes." 

-Held  for  Night  Court  trial.  Lock  her  up, 
Officer." 

Blackness  closed  over  the  girl's  brain.  She 
thought  she  was  going  into  hysterics.  Her  one 
thought  was  that  she  must  get  help,  that  she 
must  reach  some  one  who  knew  her.  She  burst 
out: 

-I  want  to  telephone." 

-To  who?" 

-Mr.  Elaine— Mr.  Elaine!" 

-West  Tenth  Street  feller?" 

-Yes." 

The  sergeant  winked  to  the  policeman! 

' '  Oh,  the  matron  '11  see  to  that !     Hey,  Officer  ?' ' 

Rhona  felt  her  arm  seized,  and  then  had  a 
sense  of  being  dragged,  a  feeling  of  cool,  fetid  air, 

249 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

a  flood  of  darkness,  voices,  and  then  she  knew  no 
more.  The  matron  who  was  stripping  her  and 
searching  her  had  to  get  cold  water  and  wash  her 
face.  .  .  . 

Later  Rhona  found  herself  in  a  narrow  cell, 
sitting  in  darkness  at  the  edge  of  a  cot.  Through 
the  door  came  a  torrent  of  high-pitched  speech. 

"Yer  little  tough,  reform!  reform!  What  yer 
mean  by  such  carryings-on  ?  I  know  yer  record. 
Beware  of  God,  little  devil.  .  .  ." 

On  and  on  it  went,  and  Rhona,  dazed,  won- 
dered what  new  terror  it  foreboded.  But  then 
without  warning  the  talk  switched. 

"Yer  know  who  I  am  ?" 

"Who?"  quavered  Rhona. 

"The  matron." 

"Yes?" 

"I  divorced  him,  I  did." 

"Yes." 

"My  husband,  I'm  telling  yer.     Are  yer  deef  ?" 

Suddenly  Rhona  rose  and  rushed  to  the  door. 

"I  want  to  send  a  message." 

"By-and-by,"  said  the  matron,  and  her  rum- 
reeking  breath  came  full  in  the  girl's  face.  The 
matron  was  drunk. 

For  an  hour  she  confided  to  Rhona  the  history 
of  her  married  life,  and  each  time  that  Rhona 
dared  cry,  "I  want  to  send  a  message!"  she 
replied,  ' '  By-and-by. ' ' 

But  after  an  hour  was  ended,  she  remem- 
bered. 

250 


RHONA 

44 Message?    Sure!     Fifty  cents!" 

Rhona  clutched  the  edge  of  the  door. 

" Telephone — I  want  to  telephone!" 

11  Telephone!"  shrieked  the  matron.  "Do  yer 
think  we  keep  a  telephone  for  the  likes  of  ye  ?" 

"But  I  haven't  fifty  cents — besides,  a  message 
doesn't  cost  fifty  cents— 

"Are  yer  telling  me?"  the  matron  snorted. 
* '  Fifty  cents !  Come  now,  hurry, ' '  she  wheedled. 
*'Yer  know  as  yer  has  it!  Oh,  it's  in  good  time 
you  come!" 

Her  last  words  were  addressed  to  some  one 
behind  her.  The  cell  door  was  quickly  opened; 
Rhona's  arm  was  seized  by  John,  the  policeman, 
and  without  words  she  was  marched  to  the  curb 
and  pushed  into  the  patrol  wagon  with  half  a 
dozen  others.  The  wagon  clanged  through  the 
cold,  dark  streets,  darting  through  the  icy  edge 
of  the  wind,  and  the  women  huddled  together. 
Rhona  never  forgot  how  that  miserable  wagonful 
chattered — that  noise  of  clicking  teeth,  the  pulse 
of  indrawn  sighs,  and  the  shivering  of  arms  and 
chests.  Closer  and  closer  they  drew,  as  if  using 
one  another  as  shields  against  the  arctic  on- 
slaught, a  couple  of  poor  women,  and  four  un- 
sightly prostitutes,  the  scum  of  the  lower  Ten- 
derloin. One  woman  kept  moaning  jerkily: 

"Wisht  I  was  dead — down  in  my  grave.  It's 
bitter  cold—" 

The  horses  struck  sparks  against  the  pave,  the 
wheels  grided,  and  the  wagon-load  went  west,  up 

251 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

the  shadowy  depths  of  Sixth  Avenue,  under  the 
elevated  structure,  and  stopped  before  Jefferson 
Market  Court.  The  women  were  hustled  out  and 
went  shuddering  through  long  corridors,  until  at 
last  they  were  shoved  into  a  large  cell. 

At  about  the  same  moment  Myra  and  Joe 
emerged  from  the  West  Tenth  Street  house  and 
started  for  the  court-house.  They  started,  bow- 
ing their  heads  in  the  wind,  holding  on  to  their 
hats. 

"Whew!"  muttered  Joe.     "This  is  a  night!" 

Myra  did  not  dare  take  his  arm,  and  he  spoke 
a  little  gruffly. 

"Better  hang  on  to  me." 

She  slipped  her  arm  through  his  then,  grate- 
fully, and  tried  to  bravely  fight  eastward  with 
him. 

Joe  was  silent.  He'  walked  with  difficulty. 
Myra  almost  felt  as  if  she  were  leading  him.  If 
she  only  could  have  sent  him  home,  nursed  him 
and  comforted  him!  He  was  so  weary  that  she 
felt  more  like  sending  him  to  bed  than  dragging 
him  out  in  this  bitter  weather. 

More  and  more  painfully  he  shuffled,  and 
Myra  brooded  over  him  as  if  he  were  hers,  and 
there  was  a  sad  joy  in  doing  this,  a  sad  glory  in 
leading  him  and  sharing  the  cruel  night  with  him. 

In  this  way  they  gained  the  corner  of  Sixth 
Avenue.  Across  the  way  loomed  the  illuminated 
tower-topped  brick  court-house. 

252 


RHONA 

"Here  it  is,"  said  Joe. 

Myra  led  him  over,  up  the  steps,  and  through 
the  dingy  entrance.  Then  they  stepped  into  the 
court-room  and  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches, 
which  were  set  out  as  in  a  school-room. 

The  place  was  large  and  blue,  and  dimly 
lighted.  The  judge's  end  of  it  was  screened  off 
by  wire  netting.  Up  on  a  raised  platform  sat  the 
magistrate  at  his  desk,  his  eyes  hidden  by  a  green 
shade,  his  bald  head  radiant  with  the  electric 
light  above  him.  Clerks  hovered  about  him,  and 
an  anaemic  indoor  policeman,  standing  before 
him,  grasped  with  one  hand  a  brass  rail  and  with 
the  other  was  continually  handing  up  prisoners 
to  be  judged.  All  in  the  inclosed  space  stood 
and  moved  a  mass  of  careless  men,  the  lawyers, 
hangers-on,  and  all  who  fatten  upon  crime- 
careless,  laughing,  nudging,  talking  openly  to  the 
women  of  the  street.  A  crass  scene,  a  scene  of 
bitter  cynicism,  of  flashy  froth,  degrading  and 
cheap.  Not  here  to-night  the  majesty  of  the  law; 
here  only  a  well-oiled  machine  grinding  out  in- 
justice. 

Joe  and  Myra  were  seated  among  a  crowd  of 
witnesses  and  tired  lawyers.  The  law's  delay 
seemed  to  steep  the  big  room  with  drowsiness; 
the  air  was  warm  and  breathed  in  and  out  a 
thousand  times  by  a  hundred  lungs.  Myra 
looked  about  her  at  the  weary,  listless  audience. 
Then  she  looked  at  Joe.  He  had  fallen  fast 
asleep,  his  head  hanging  forward.  She  smiled 

253 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

sadly  and  was  filled  with  a  strange  happiness. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  hold  out  any  longer. 
Well,  then,  he  should  sleep,  she  thought;  she 
would  watch  alone. 

Then,  as  she  sat  and  gazed,  a  drunken  woman 
in  the  seat  before  her  fell  sound  asleep.  At  once 
the  big  special  officer  at  the  little  gate  of  wire 
netting  came  thumping  down  the  aisle,  leaned 
close,  and  prodded  her  shoulder  with  his  fore- 
finger, crying: 

"Wake  up,  there!" 

She  awoke,  startled,  and  a  dozen  laughed. 

Myra  had  a  great  fear  that  the  officer  would  see 
Joe.  But  he  didn't.  He  turned  and  went  back 
to  his  post. 

Myra  watched  eagerly — aware  of  the  fact  that 
this  scene  was  not  as  terrible  to  her  as  it  might 
have  been.  The  experience  of  the  day  had 
sharpened  her  receptivity,  broadened  her  out- 
look. She  took  it  for  what  it  was  worth.  She 
hated  it,  but  she  did  not  let  it  overmaster 
her. 

There  was  much  business  going  f9rward  before 
the  judge's  desk,  and  Myra  had  glimpses  of  the 
prisoners.  She  saw  one  girl,  bespectacled,  hard, 
flashy,  pushed  to  the  bar,  and  suddenly  heard  her 
voice  rise  shrill  and  human  above  the  drone-like 
buzzing  of  the  crowd. 

"You  dirty  liar;  I'll  slap  yer  face  if  yer  say 
that  again!" 

A  moment  later  she  was  discharged,  pushed 
254 


RHONA 

through  the  little  gateway,  and  came  tripping  by 
Myra,  shouting  shrilly: 

'Til  make  charges  against  him — I'll  break 
him— I  will!" 

Several  others  Myra  saw. 

A  stumpy  semi-idiot  with  shining,  oily  face 
and  child-staring  eyes,  who  clutched  the  railing 
with  both  big  hands  and  stood  comically  in  huge 
clothes,  his  eyes  outgazing  the  judge.  He  was 
suddenly  yanked  back  to  prison. 

A  collarless  wife-beater,  with  hanging  lips  and 
pleading  dog's  eyes,  his  stout  Irish  wife  sobbing 
beside  him.  He  got  "six  months,"  and  his  wife 
came  sobbing  past  Myra. 

Then  there  was  an  Italian  peddler,  alien,  con- 
fused, and  in  rags,  soon,  however,  to  be  set  free; 
and  next  a  jovial  drunk,  slapping  the  officers  on 
the  back,  lifting  his  legs  in  dance-like  motions 
and  shouting  to  the  judge.  He  was  lugged  away 
for  a  night's  rest. 

And  then,  of  course,  the  women.  It  was  all 
terrible,  new,  undreamed  of,  to  Myra.  She  saw 
these  careless  Circes  of  the  street,  plumed,  pow- 
dered, jeweled,  and  she  saw  the  way  the  men 
handled  and  spoke  to  them. 

Scene  after  scene  went  on,  endless,  confused, 
lost  in  the  buzz  and  hum  of  voices,  the  shuffle  of 
feet.  The  air  grew  warmer  and  more  and  more 
foul.  Myra  felt  drowsy.  She  longed  to  put  her 
head  on  Joe's  shoulder  and  fall  asleep — sink  into 
peace  and  stillness.  But  time  and  again  she 

255 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

came  to  with  a  jerk,  started  forward  and  eagerly 
scanned  the  faces  for  Rhona.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  the  girl?  Would  she  be  kept  in  jail 
overnight  ?  Or  had  something  worse  happened  ? 
An  increasing  fear  took  possession  of  her.  She 
felt  in  the  presence  of  enemies.  Joe  was  asleep. 
She  could  not  question  him,  could  not  be  set  at 
ease.  And  how  soundly  he  slept,  breathing 
deeply,  his  head  hanging  far  forward.  If  only 
she  could  make  a  pillow  for  that  tired  head ! 

She  was  torn  between  many  emotions.  Now 
she  watched  a  scene  beyond  the  netting — some- 
thing cynical,  cheap,  degrading — watched  it  with 
no  real  sense  of  its  meaning — wondered  where 
she  was  and  how  she  had  come — and  why  all  this 
was  going  on.  Then  she  would  turn  and  look 
piteously  at  Joe,  her  face  sharp  with  yearning. 
Then  she  would  drowse,  and  awake  with  a  start. 
She  kept  pinching  herself. 

"If  I  fall  asleep  Rhona  may  get  through  with- 
out us — something  will  happen !" 

It  must  have  been  past  midnight.  There  was 
no  sign  of  Rhona.  Each  new  face  that  emerged 
from  the  jail  entrance  was  that  of  a  stranger. 
Again  an  overwhelming  fear  swept  Myra.  She 
touched  Joe's  arm. 

"Joe!    Joe!"  she  whispered. 

He  did  not  answer;  his  hand  moved  a  little 
and  dropped.  How  soundly  he  slept!  She 
smiled  then,  and  sat  forward,  determined  to  be  a 
brave  woman. 

256 


RHONA 

Then  glancing  through  the  netting  she  spied 
Blondy  and  his  friends  laughing  together.  She 
saw  the  evil  monkey  eyes.  At  once  she  was 
back  sharply  in  Great  Jones  Street,  trembling 
with  outrage  and  humiliation.  She  tried  to 
keep  her  eyes  from  him,  and  again  and  again 
looked  at  him  and  loathed  him. 

"If,"  she  thought,  "he  is  here,  perhaps  the 
time  has  come." 

Again  she  searched  the  new  faces,  and  gave  a 
little  cry  of  joy.  There  was  Rhona,  pale,  quiet, 
her  arm  in  the  hand  of  the  policeman  who  had 
made  the  arrest. 

Myra  turned  to  Joe. 

"Joe!     Wake  up!" 

He  stirred  a  little. 

"Joe!     Joe!     Wake  up!" 

He  gave  a  great  start  and  opened  his  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried.  "Do  they  want 
union  cards?" 

"Joe,"  she  exclaimed,  "Rhona's  here." 

"Rhona?"  He  sat  upright;  he  was  a  wo- 
fully  sleepy  man.  "Rhona?"  Then  he  gazed 
about  him  and  saw  Myra. 

"Oh,  Myra!"  He  laughed  sweetly.  "How 
good  it  is  to  see  you!" 

She  paled  a  little  at  the  words. 

"Joe,"  she  whispered,  "we're  in  the  court. 
Rhona's  waiting  for  us." 

Then  he  understood. 

"And  I've  been  sleeping,  and  you  let  me 
17  257 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

sleep  ?"     He  laughed  softly.     * '  What  a  good  soul 
you  are!     Rhona!     Come,  quick!" 

They  arose,  Joe  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  stepped 
forward.  Myra  felt  stiff  and  sore.  Then  Joe 
spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  the  gate-keeper,  the  gate 
opened,  and  they  entered  in. 


THE    TRIAL 

RHONA  had  spent  the  evening  in  the  women's 
cell,  which  was  one  of  three  in  a  row.  The 
other  two  were  for  men.  The  window  was  high 
up,  and  a  narrow  bench  ran  around  the  walls. 
Sprawled  on  this  were  from  thirty  to  forty 
women;  the  air  was  nauseating,  and  the  place 
smelled  to  heaven.  Outside  the  bars  of  the  door 
officers  lounged  in  the  lighted  hall  waiting  the 
signal  to  fetch  their  prisoners.  Now  and  then 
the  door  opened,  a  policeman  entered,  picked  his 
woman,  seized  upon  her,  and  pulled  her  along 
without  speaking  to  her.  It  was  as  if  the  pris- 
oners were  dumb  wild  beasts. 

For  a  while  Rhona  sat  almost  doubled  up, 
feeling  that  she  would  never  get  warm.  Her 
body  would  be  still  a  minute,  and  then  a  racking 
spasm  took  her  and  her  teeth  chattered.  A 
purple-faced  woman  beside  her  leaned  forward. 

"Bad  business  on  the  street  a  night  like  this, 
ain't  it?  Here,  I'll  rub  your  hands." 

Rhona  smiled  bitterly,  and  felt  the  rub  of 
roughened  palms  against  her  icy  hands.  Then 
she  began  to  look  around,  sick  with  the  smell,  the 

259 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

sudden  nauseous  warmth.  She  saw  the  strange 
rouged  faces,  the  impudent  eyes,  the  showy  head- 
gear, flashing  out  among  the  obscure  faces  of 
poor  women,  and  as  she  looked  a  filthy  drunk 
began  to  rave,  rose  tottering,  and  staggered  to 
the  door  and  beat  clanging  upon  it,  all  the  while 
shrieking : 

"Buy  me  the  dope,  boys,  buy  me  the  dope!" 

Others  pulled  her  back.  Women  of  the  street, 
sitting  together,  chewed  gum  and  laughed  and 
talked  shrilly,  and  Rhona  could  not  understand 
how  prisoners  could  be  so  care-free. 

All  the  evening  she  had  been  dazed,  her  one 
clear  thought  the  sending  of  a  message  for  help. 
But  now  as  she  sat  in  the  dim,  reeking  cell,  she 
began  to  realize  what  had  happened. 

Then  as  it  burst  upon  her  that  she  was  inno- 
cent, that  she  had  been  lied  against,  that  she  was 
helpless,  a  wild  wave  of  revolt  swept  her.  She 
thought  she  would  go  insane.  She  could  have 
thrown  a  bomb  at  that  moment.  She  under- 
stood revolutionists. 

This  feeling  was  followed  by  abject  fear.  She 
was  alone  .  .  .  alone.  .  .  .  Why  had  she  al- 
lowed herself  to  be  caught  in  this  trap?  Why 
had  she  struck?  Was  it  not  foolhardy  to  raise 
a  hand  against  such  a  mammoth  system  of  ini- 
quity? Over  in  Hester  Street  her  poor  mother, 
plying  the  never-pausing  needle,  might  be  grow- 
ing anxious — might  be  sending  out  to  find  her. 
What  new  trouble  was  she  bringing  to  her  family  ? 

260 


THE    TRIAL 

What  new  touch  of  torture  was  she  adding  to  the 
hard,  sweated  life  ?  And  her  father — what,  when 
he  came  home  from  the  sweatshop  so  tired  that 
he  was  ready  to  fling  himself  on  the  bed  without 
undressing,  what  if  she  were  missing,  and  he  had 
to  go  down  and  search  the  streets  for  her  ? 

If  only  Joe  Elaine  had  been  notified!  Could 
she  depend  on  that  Miss  Craig,  who  had  melted 
away  at  the  first  approach  of  peril  ?  Yet  surely 
there  must  be  help!  Did  not  the  Woman's 
League  keep  a  lawyer  in  the  court?  Would  he 
not  be  ready  to  defend  her  ?  That  was  a  ray  of 
hope!  She  cheered  up  wonderfully  under  it. 
She  began  to  feel  that  it  was  somehow  glorious 
to  thus  serve  the  cause  she  was  sworn  to  serve. 
She  even  had  a  dim  hope — almost  a  fear — that 
her  father  had  been  sent  for.  She  wanted  to  see  a 
familiar  face,  even  though  she  were  sure  he  would 
upbraid  her  for  bringing  disgrace  upon  the  family. 

So  passed  long  hours.  Prisoners  came  in — 
prisoners  went  out.  Laughter  rose — cries — mut- 
terings;  then  came  a  long  silence.  Women 
yawned.  Some  snuggled  up  on  the  bench,  their 
heads  in  their  neighbors'  laps,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 
Rhona  became  wofully  tired  —  drooped  where 
she  sat — a  feeling  of  exhaustion  dragging  her 
down.  The  purple-faced  woman  beside  her 
leaned  forward. 

"Say,  honey,  put  your  head  in  my  lap!" 

She  did  so.  She  felt  wTarmth,  ease,  a  drowsy 
comfort.  She  fell  fast  asleep.  .  .  . 

261 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"No!  No!"  she  cried  out,  "it  was  he  struck 
mif 

She  had  a  terrible  desire  to  sob  her  heart  out, 
and  a  queer  sensation  of  being  tossed  in  mid-air. 
Then  she  gazed  about  in  horror.  She  was  on  her 
feet,  had  evidently  been  dragged  up,  and  John, 
the  policeman,  held  her  arm  in  a  pinch  that  left 
its  mark.  Gasping,  she  was  shoved  along  through 
the  doorway  and  into  a  scene  of  confusion. 

They  stood  a  few  minutes  in  the  judge's  end 
of  the  court-room — a  crowd  eddying  about  them. 
Rhona  had  a  queer  feeling  in  her  head ;  the  lights 
blinded  her;  the  noise  seemed  like  the  rush  of 
waters  in  her  ears.  Then  she  thought  sharply: 

"I  must  get  myself  together.  This  is  the 
court.  It  will  be  all  over  in  a  minute.  Where's 
Mr.  Joe?  Where's  the  lawyer?  Where's  my 
father?" 

She  looked  about  eagerly,  searching  faces. 
Not  one  did  she  know.  What  had  happened? 
She  felt  the  spasm  of  chills  returning  to  her. 
Had  Miss  Craig  failed  her?  Where  was  the 
strikers'  lawyer?  Were  there  friends  waiting 
out  in  the  tired  audience,  among  the  sleepy 
witnesses  ?  Suddenly  she  saw  Blondy  laughing 
and  talking  with  a  gaudy  woman  in  the  crowd. 
She  trembled  all  at  once  with  animal  rage.  .  .  . 
She  could  have  set  upon  him  with  her  nails  and 
her  teeth.  But  she  was  fearfully  afraid,  fear- 
fully helpless.  What  could  she  do  ?  What  would 
be  done  with  her  ? 

262 


THE   TRIAL 

John  pushed  her  forward  a  few  steps ;  her  own 
volition  could  not  take  her,  and  then  she  saw 
the  judge.  This  judge — would  he  understand? 
Could  he  sympathize  with  a  young  girl  who  was 
wrongly  accused?  The  magistrate  was  talking 
carelessly  with  his  clerk,  and  Rhona  felt  in  a 
flash  that  all  this,  which  to  her  was  terrible 
and  world -important,  to  him  was  mere  trivial 
routine. 

She  waited,  her  heart  pounding  against  her 
ribs,  her  breath  coming  short  and  stifled.  Then 
all  at  once  she  saw  Joe  and  Myra  as  they  entered 
the  gate,  and  a  beautiful  smile  lit  up  her  face. 
It  was  a  blessed  moment. 

They  came  up ;  Joe  spoke  in  a  low  breath. 

' '  Rhona,  have  you  seen  the  lawyer  about  ?" 

''No,"  she  muttered. 

Joe  looked  around.  He  stood  above  that  crowd 
by  half  a  head.  Then  he  muttered  bitterly  to 
Myra : 

"Why  isn't  that  fellow  here  to-night?  You 
shouldn't  have  let  me  sleep!" 

Myra  was  abashed,  and  Rhona,  divining  his 
misery,  felt  quite  alone  again,  quite  helpless. 

Suddenly  then  she  was  pushed  forward,  and 
next  the  indoor  policeman  was  handing  her  up 
to  the  judge,  and  now  she  stood  face  to  face  with 
her  crisis.  Again  her  heart  pounded  hard,  her 
breath  shortened.  She  was  dimly  aware  of  Joe 
and  Myra  behind  her,  and  of  Blondy  and  his 
friends  beside  her.  She  looked  straight  at  the 

263 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

magistrate,  not  trusting  herself  to  glance  either 
side. 

The  magistrate  looked  up  and  nodded  to  the 
policeman. 

"What's  the  charge?"  His  voice  was  a  color- 
less monotone. 

"Assault,  your  Honor.  This  girl  was  picket- 
ing in  the  strike,  and  this  private  detective  told 
her  to  move  on.  Then  she  struck  him." 

Rhona  felt  as  if  she  could  burst ;  she  expected 
the  magistrate  to  question  her ;  but  he  continued 
to  address  the  policeman. 

'  *  Any  witnesses  ?' ' 

"These  other  detectives,  your  Honor." 

The  magistrate  turned  to  Blondy's  friends. 

' '  Is  what  the  policeman  says  true  ?" 

"Yes,"  they  chorused 

Joe  spoke  clearly. 

"Your  Honor,  there's  another  witness." 

The  magistrate  looked  at  Joe  keenly. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"My  name's  Elaine — Joe  Elaine." 

"The  editor?" 

"Yes." 

The  magistrate  spoke  sharply : 

"I  can  tell  you  now  you'll  merely  damage  the 
case.  I  don't  take  the  word  of  such  a  witness." 

Joe  spoke  easily. 

"It's  not  my  word.  Miss  Craig  here  is  the 
witness.  She  saw  the  assault." 

The  magistrate  looked  at  Myra. 
264 


THE   TRIAL 

"What  were  you  doing  at  the  time?'* 

Myra  spoke  hardly  above  a  whisper,  for  she 
felt  that  she  was  losing  control  of  herself. 

"I — I  was  walking  with  Miss  Hemlitz." 

' '  Walking  ?     You  mean  picketing." 

"Yes." 

"Well,  naturally,  your  word  is  not  worth  any 
more  than  the  prisoner's.  You  should  have  been 
arrested,  too." 

Myra  could  not  speak  any  further;  and  the 
magistrate  turned  again  to  the  policeman. 

"You  swear  your  charge  is  true?" 

The  policeman  raised  his  hand. 

"I  swear." 

Rhona  felt  a  stab  as  of  lightning.  She  raised 
her  hand  high;  her  voice  came  clear,  sharp,  real, 
rising  above  the  drone-like  noise  of  the  court. 

"I  swear  it  is  not  true.  I  never  struck  him. 
He  struck  me!" 

The  magistrate's  face  reddened,  a  vein  on  his 
forehead  swelled  up,  and  he  leaned  toward  Rhona. 

"What  you  say,  young  lady"— there  was  a 
touch  of  passion  in  his  voice — "doesn't  count. 
Understand?  You're  one  of  these  strikers, 
aren't  you?  Well,  the  whole  lot  of  you"— his 
voice  rose — "are  on  a  strike  against  God,  whose 
principal  law  is  that  man  should  earn  bread  by 
the  sweat  of  his  brow." 

Rhona  trembled  before  these  unbelievable 
words.  She  stared  into  his  eyes,  and  he  went  on 
passionately : 

265 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I've  let  some  of  you  off  with  fines — but  this 
has  gone  too  far.  I'll  make  an  example  of  you. 
You  shall  go  to  the  workhouse  on  Blackwells 
Island  for  five  days .  Next !' ' 

Joe,  too,  was  dazed.  But  he  whispered  to 
Rhona : 

' '  Meet  it  bravely.     I'll  tell  the  girls !" 

Her  arm  was  grasped,  she  was  pushed,  without 
volition,  through  crowding  faces;  and  at  length, 
after  another  ride  in  the  patrol  wagon,  she  found 
herself  on  a  narrow  cot  in  a  narrow  cell.  The 
door  was  slammed  shut  ominously.  Dim  light 
entered  through  a  high  aperture. 

She  flung  herself  down  her  whole  length,  and 
sobbed.  Bitter  was  life  for  Rhona  Hemlitz, 
seventeen  years  old.  .  .  . 

Joe,  in  the  court-room,  had  seized  Myra's  arm. 

"Let  us  get  out  of  this!" 

They  went  through  the  gateway,  up  the  aisle, 
out  the  dim  entrance,  into  the  streets.  It  was 
two  in  the  morning,  and  the  narrow  canons 
were  emptied  of  life,  save  the  shadowy  fleeting 
shape  of  some  night  prowler,  some  creature  of  the 
underworld.  The  air  was  a  trifle  less  cold,  and  a 
fine  hard  snow  was  sifting  down — crunched 
underfoot — a  bitter,  tiny,  stinging  snow — hard 
and  innumerable. 

Cavernous  and  gloomy  seemed  the  street, 
as  they  trudged  west,  arm  in  arm.  Myra  had 
never  been  so  stirred  in  her  life;  she  felt  as  if 

266 


THE    TRIAL 

things  ugly  and  dangerous  had  been  released  in 
her  heart;  a  flame  seemed  raging  in  her  breast. 
And  then  as  they  went  on,  Joe  found  vent  in  hard 
words. 

''And  such  things  go  on  in  this  city — in  this 
high  civilization — and  this  is  a  part  of  life — and 
then  they  wonder  why  we  are  so  unreasonable. 
It  goes  on,  and  they  shut  their  eyes  to  it.  The 
newspapers  and  magazines  hush  it  up.  No,  no, 
don't  give  this  to  the  readers,  they  want  some- 
thing pleasant,  something  optimistic!  Suppress 
it!  Don't  let  the  light  of  publicity  smite  it  and 
clear  it  up!  Let  it  go  on!  Let  the  secret  sore 
fester.  It  smells  bad,  it  looks  bad.  Keep  the 
surgeon  away.  We  might  lose  subscribers,  we 
might  be  accused  of  muck-raking.  But  I  tell 
you,"  his  voice  rose,  "this  world  will  never  be 
much  better  until  we  face  the  worst  of  it!  Oh," 
he  gave  a  heavy  groan,  "Myra!  Myra!  I  won- 
der if  I  ever  will  be  happy  again !" 

Myra  spoke  from  her  heart. 

"You're  overworked,  Joe;  you're  unstrung. 
Perhaps  you  see  this  too  big — out  of  perspective !" 

He  spoke  with  intense  bitterness. 

"It's  all  my  fault.  It's  all  my  fault.  If  I 
hadn't  been  so  sleepy  I'd  have  sent  for  a  lawyer. 
I  thought,  of  course,  he'd  be  there!" 

Myra  spoke  eagerly : 

"That's  just  it,  Joe.  Oh,  won't  you  ta,ke  a 
rest?  Won't  you  go  away  awhile?  Just  for 
your  work's  sake." 

267 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

He  mused  sadly: 

"Mother  keeps  saying  the  same  thing." 

"She's  right!"  cried  Myra.  "Joe,  you're  kill- 
ing yourself.  How  can  you  really  serve  the 
strike  if  you're  in  this  condition  ?" 

He  spoke  more  quietly. 

"They  need  me,  Myra.  Do  you  think  I'm 
worse  off  than  Rhona  ?" 

Myra  could  not  answer  this.  It  is  a  curious 
fact  that  some  of  the  terrible  moments  of  life  are 
afterward  treasured  as  the  great  moments. 
Looked  back  upon,  they  are  seen  to  be  the  vital 
step  forward,  the  readjustment  and  growth  of 
character,  and  not  for  anything  would  any  real 
man  or  woman  miss  them.  Afterward  Myra 
discovered  that  this  night  had  been  one  of  the 
master  nights  of  her  life,  and  when  she  repictured 
that  walk  up  Tenth  Street  at  two  in  the  morning, 
through  the  thin  sifting  snow,  the  big  tragic  man 
at  her  side,  it  seemed  a  beautiful  and  wonderful 
thing.  They  had  been  all  alone  out  in  the  city's 
streets,  close  together,  feeling  as  one  the  reality 
of  life,  sharing  as  one  the  sharp  unconquerable 
tragedy,  suffering  together  against  the  injustice 
of  the  world. 

But  at  the  moment  she  felt  only  bitter,  self- 
reproachful,  and  full  of  pity  for  poor  human 
beings.  It  was  a  time  when  the  divine  creatures 
born  of  woman  seemed  mere  little  waifs  astray  in 
a  friendless  universe,  somehow  lost  on  a  cruel 
earth,  crying  like  children  in  the  pitiless  night, 

268 


THE    TRIAL 

foredoomed  and  predestined  to  broken  hearts 
and  death.  It  seemed  a  very  sad  and  strange 
mystery,  and  more  sad,  more  strange  to  be  one  of 
these  human  beings  herself. 

They  reached  the  house.  Lights  were  still 
burning  in  the  office,  and  when  they  entered 
they  found  the  District  Committee  sitting  about 
the  red  stove,  still  working  out  the  morrow's 
plans.  Giotto  was  there,  Sally  Heffer,  and  Jacob 
Izon,  and  others,  tired,  pale,  and  huddled,  but 
still  toiling  wearily  with  one  another.  As  Joe 
and  Myra  came  in  they  looked  up,  and  Sally  rose. 

"Is  she — "  she  began,  and  then  spoke  angrily, 
"I  can  see  she's  been  held." 

Joe  smiled  sadly. 

"Sent  to  the  workhouse  for  five  days." 

Exclamations  of  indignation  arose.  The  com- 
mittee could  not  believe  it. 

"I  wish,"  cried  impetuous  Sally,  "that magis- 
trate were  my  husband.  I'd  throw  a  flatiron  at 
his  head  and  put  some  castor-oil  in  his  soup!" 

Joe  laughed  a  little.  He  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  then  at  Myra. 

"Myra,"  he  said,  gently,  "it's  two  o'clock — too 
late  to  go  home.  You  must  sleep  with  mother." 

Myra  spoke  softly. 

"No — I  can  get  home  all  right." 

He  took  her  by  the  arm. 

"Myra,"  he  leaned  over,  "do  just  this  one 
thing  for  me." 

"I  will!"  she  breathed. 
269 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

He  led  her  in  through  his  room,  and  knocked 
softly. 

' '  Mother !" 

'  *  Yes, ' '  came  a  clear,  wide-awake  voice.  "I'm 
awake,  Joe." 

"Here's  Myra.     May  she  stay  with  you?" 

"Good!" 

Myra  went  in,  but  turned. 

"Joe,"  she  said,  tremulously,  "you're  not 
going  to  stay  up  with  that  committee  ?" 

''They  need  me,  Myra." 

"But,  Joe,"  her  voice  broke  —  "this  is  too 
much  of  a  good  thing — " 

Joe's  mother  interrupted  her. 

"Better  leave  the  boy  alone,  Myra — to-night, 
anyway." 

Joe  laughed. 

"I'll  try  to  cut  it  short!  Sweet  dreams, 
ladies!" 

For  long  they  heard  his  voice  mingled  with 
the  others,  as  they  lay  side  by  side  in  the  black 
darkness.  But  Myra  was  glad  to  be  near  him, 
glad  to  share  his  invisible  presence.  After  she 
had  told  Joe's  mother  about  Rhona,  the  two, 
unable  to  sleep,  talked  quietly  for  some  time. 
Drawn  together  by  their  love  for  Joe — and  Joe's 
mother  was  quick  in  divining — they  felt  as  if 
they  knew  each  other  intimately,  though  they 
had  met  for  the  first  time  that  afternoon,  when 
Myra,  having  reported  Rhona's  arrest  to  Joe, 
groped  her  way  blindly  to  the  rear  kitchen  and 

270 


THE    TRIAL 

stood,    trying    not    to    sob,   before    the    elder 
woman . 

She  had  asked*. 

' '  Are  you  Mrs .  B laine  ? ' '  and  had  gone  on .  "I'm 
Myra — Myra  Craig.  Joe  and  I  used  to  know 
each  other." 

Whereupon  Joe's  mother,  remembering  some- 
thing Joe  had  said  of  writing  to  a  Myra  Craig  in 
the  country,  suddenly  understood.  There  was  a 
swift,  "What!  You  and  he—?"  a  sob  from 
Myra,  and  the  two  were  in  each  other's  arms. 
Then  followed  supper  and  a  quiet  evening. 

And  now  in  the  darkness  they  lay  and  talked. 

"I've  been  worrying  about  Joe,"  Mrs.  Elaine 
mused,  softly. 

"Why?"  " 

"Can't  you  see  why?" 

"He  looks  badly,"  Myra  sighed. 

"Joe,"  said  his  mother,  quietly,  "is  killing  him- 
self. He  doesn't  listen  to  me,  and  I  don't  want 
to  interfere  too  much." 

"Isn't  there  anything  to  be  done?" 

There  was  a  silence  and  then  Joe's  mother 
spoke  in  a  strange  personal  voice. 

"What  if  you  could  do  something." 

Myra  could  hardly  speak. 

"I?" 

"You."  A  hand  caught  hers.  "Try.  He's 
simply  giving  his  life  to  the  cause." 

There  was  a  silence  a  little  while.  The  tears 
were  wet  upon  Myra's  cheeks. 

271 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"Mrs.  Elaine." 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Tell  me  about  yourself  —  what  you've  been 
doing — both  of  you." 

And  as  Mrs.  Elaine  told  her,  time  and  time 
again  Myra  laughed  softly,  or  was  glad  the  dark- 
ness concealed  those  unbidden  tears. 

But  as  Mrs.  Elaine  spoke  of  the  attack  of 
Marrin's  men,  Myra  was  thrilled. 

"But  what  happened  afterward?"  she  cried. 
"Isn't  he  in  danger  now?  Mightn't  there  be 
another  attack?" 

Joe's  mother's  voice  rang. 

"Afterward?  It  was  wonderful.  The  whole 
neighborhood  rose  to  Joe's  side.  They  even 
started  a  subscription  to  rebuild  the  press.  Oh, 
the  people  here  are  amazing!" 

"And  the  men  who  mobbed  him?" 

"Many  were  arrested,  but  Joe  did  not  appear 
against  them,  and  the  men  from  Marrin's  were 
the  first  to  come  in  and  tell  of  their  remorse.  As 
for  the  thugs  and  criminals — they  don't  dare  lift 
their  heads.  Public  opinion  is  hot  against  them." 

Thus  they  talked,  intimately,  sweetly,  and  at 
last  the  elder  woman  kissed  the  younger  good- 
night. 

"But,  dear,  you've  been  crying!" 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  be  here!"  sobbed  Myra. 
"So  glad  to  be  with  you !" 

And  even  then  she  had  a  sense  of  the  greatness 
and  wonder  of  that  day ;  how  new  and  untapped 

272 


THE    TRIAL 

forces  in  her  nature  were  emerging;  how  the 
whole  seeming  of  life — ''These  shows  of  the  night 
and  day" — was  changing  for  her;  how  life  was 
deepening  down  to  its  bitter  roots,  roots  bitter 
but  miraculously  sheathed  in  crystalline  springs; 
in  sweet  waters,  in  beauty  and  love  and  mystery. 
It  was  the  finding  of  her  own  soul — a  power  great 
enough  to  endure  tragedy  and  come  forth  to  a 
richer  laughter  and  a  wiser  loveliness.  Only 
thus  does  life  reveal  its  meanings  and  its  miracles, 
and  prove  that  it  is  an  adventure  high  and  fine, 
ever  tending  higher,  ever  more  enriched  with 
faith  and  marvelous  strength,  and  that  mirth 
that  meets  the  future  with  an  expectant  smile. 

So  thinking,  so  feeling,  she  grew  drowsier, 
sank  deeper — her  body  tired  in  every  muscle,  in 
every  bone  —  her  mind  unable  to  keep  awake; 
and  so  she  faded  into  the  pure  rest  of  sleep. 

18 


XI 

THE    WORKHOUSE 

THAT  next  day  was  as  a  dream  to  Rhona. 
Not  until  evening  did  it  become  real.  Break- 
fast was  brought  to  her  cell,  but  she  did  not 
taste  it.  Next  she  was  led  out  by  a  policeman  to 
the  street  and  packed  in  the  patrol  wagon  with 
eight  other  women.  The  morning  was  gray, 
with  a  hard  sifting  snow,  and  as  the  wagon 
bumped  over  cobblestones,  Rhona  breathed  deep 
of  the  keen  air. 

The  ride  seemed  without  end;  but  next  she 
was  in  a  ferry;  and  then,  last,  was  hurried  into 
a  long  gray  building  on  Blackwells  Island. 

Her  cell  was  fairly  large,  and  contained  two 
cots,  one  against  each  wall.  She  was  left  discon- 
solately alone,  numb,  in  despair,  and  moving 
about  in  a  dream. 

But  after  supper  she  found  herself  locked  in 
with  another  woman.  She  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  her  cot,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  room,  and  with 
a  sharp  glance,  half  fear,  half  curiosity,  regarded 
her  room-mate.  This  other  was  a  woman  of 
possibly  thirty  years,  with  sallow  cheeks,  bright 
burning  eyes,  and  straggly  hair.  She  stood  be- 

274 


THE   WORKHOUSE 

fore  the  little  wall  mirror,  apparently  examining 
herself.     Suddenly  she  turned : 

"What  you  looking  at,  kid?" 

Rhona  averted  her  eyes. 

"I  didn't  mean—" 

"Say,"  said  the  other,  "ain't  I  the  awful  thing  ? 
Not  a  rat  or  a  puff  or  a  dab  of  rouge  allowed  in 
these  here  premises.  I  do  look  a  sight — a  fright. 
Gee!"  She  turned.  "You're  not  so  worse.  A 
little  pale,  kid." 

She  came  over  and  sat  next  to  Rhona. 

"What  '11  I  call  you?" 

Rhona  shrank.  She  was  a  sensitive,  ignorant 
girl,  and  did  not  understand  this  type  of  woman. 
Something  coarse,  familiar,  vulgar  seemed  to 
grate  against  her. 

"Rhona's  my  name,"  she  breathed. 

"Well,  that's  cute!  Call  you  Ronie?"  She 
stretched  out  her  arms.  "Oh,  slats!  I'd  give  my 
teeth  for  a  cigarette  and  a  Manhattan  cocktail. 
Wouldn't  I,  though!" 

Rhona  shuddered. 

The  woman  turned  toward  her. 

"My  name's  Millie.  Now  we're  pals,  eh?" 
Then  she  rattled  on:  "First  time  in  the  work- 
house? Comes  hard  at  first,  doesn't  it?  Cut 
off  from  friends  and  fun — and  ain't  the  work 
beastly?  Say,  Ronie,  what's  your  job  in  little 
old  New  York?" 

Rhona  swallowed  a  dull  sob. 

"I  haven't  any — we're  on  strike." 
275 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Millie  jumped  up. 

"What,  you  one  of  them  shirtwaist  strikers?" 

"Yes." 

* '  Why  did  they  run  you  in  ?" 

"An  officer  struck  me,  and  then  said  I  struck 
him." 

"Just  like  a  man !  Oh,  I  know  men !  Depend 
upon  it,  I  know  the  men !  So,  you  were  a  shirt- 
waist-maker. How  much  d'yer  earn  ?" 

"Oh,  about  five  or  six  a  week." 

"A — week!"  Millie  whistled.  "And  I  suppose 
ten  hours  a  day,  or  worse,  and  I  suppose  work 
that  would  kill  an  ox." 

"Yes,"  said  Rhona,  "hard  work." 

Millie  sat  down  and  put  an  arm  about  the 
shrinking  girl. 

"Say,  kiddie,  I  like  you.  I'm  going  to  chuck 
a  little  horse  sense  at  you.  Now  you  listen  to  me. 
My  sister  worked  in  a  pickle-place  over  in  Pennsy, 
and  she  lasted  just  two  years,  and  then,  galloping 
consumption,  and — "  She  snapped  her  fingers, 
her  voice  became  husky.  ' '  Poor  fool !  Two  years 
is  the  limit  where  she  worked.  And  who  paid  the 
rent  ?  I  did.  But  of  course  /  wasn't  respectable 
— oh  no!  I  was  a  sinner.  Well,  let  me  tell  you 
something.  In  my  business  a  woman  can  last 
five  to  ten  years.  Do  you  blame  me?  And  I 
get  clothes,  and  the  eats,  and  the  soft  spots,  and  I 
live  like  a  lady.  .  .  .  That's  the  thing  for  you! 
Why  do  you  wear  yourself  out — slave-work  and 
strikes  and  silly  business?  .  .  .  You'll  never  get 

276 


THE   WORKHOUSE 

married.  .  .  .  The  work  will  make  you  a  hag  in 
another  year  or  two,  and  who  will  want  you? 
And  say,  you've  got  to  live  just  once — got  to  be 
just  downright  woman  for  a  little  spell,  any- 
way. .  .  .  Come  with  me,  kid  .  .  .  my  kind  of 
life." 

Rhona  looked  at  her  terrified.  She  did  not 
understand.  What  sort  of  woman  was  this? 
How  live  in  luxury  without  working?  How  be 
downright  woman? 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  the  young  girl. 

So  Millie  told  her.  They  went  to  bed,  their 
light  was  put  out,  and  neither  had  a  wink  of 
sleep.  Rhona  lay  staring  in  the  darkness  and 
over  the  room  came  the  soft  whisper  of  Millie 
bearing  a  flood  of  the  filth  of  the  underworld. 
Rhona  could  not  resist  it.  She  lay  helpless, 
quaking  with  a  wild  horror.  .  .  .  Later  she 
remembered  that  night  in  Russia  when  she  and 
others  hid  under  the  corn  in  a  barn  while  the  mob 
searched  over  their  heads — a  moment  ghastly 
with  impending  mutilation  and  death — and  she 
felt  that  this  night  was  more  terrible  than  that. 
Her  girlhood  seemed  torn  to  shreds.  .  .  .  Dawn 
broke,  a  watery  glimmer  through  the  high  barred 
window.  Rhona  rose  from  her  bed,  rushed  to 
the  door,  pulled  on  the  bars,  and  loosed  a  fearful 
shriek.  The  guard,  running  down,  Millie,  leap- 
ing forward,  both  cried : 

"What's  the  matter?" 

But  the  slim  figure  in  the  white  nightgown  fell 
277 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

down  on  the  floor,  and  thus  earned  a  few  hours  in 
the  hospital. 

They  set  her  to  scrubbing  floors  next  day,  a 
work  for  which  she  had  neither  experience  nor 
strength.  Weary,  weary  day — the  large  rhythm 
of  the  scrubbing-brush,  the  bending  of  the  back, 
the  sloppy,  dirty  floors — on  and  on,  minute  after 
minute,  on  through  the  endless  hours.  She  tried 
to  work  diligently,  though  she  was  dizzy  and 
sick,  and  felt  as  if  she  were  breaking  to  pieces. 
Feverishly  she  kept  on.  Lunch  was  tasteless 
to  her;  so  was  supper;  and  after  supper  came 
Millie. 

No  one  can  tell  of  those  nights  when  the 
young  girl  was  locked  in  with  a  hard  prostitute — 
nights,  true,  of  lessening  horror,  and  so,  all  the 
more  horrible.  As  Rhona  came  to  realize  that 
she  was  growing  accustomed  to  Millie's  talk — 
even  to  the  point  of  laughing  at  the  jokes — she 
was  aghast  at  the  dark  spaces  beneath  her  and 
within  her.  She  was  becoming  a  different  sort  of 
being — she  looked  back  on  the  hard-toiling  girl, 
who  worked  so  faithfully,  who  tried  to  study, 
who  had  a  quiet  home,  whose  day  was  an  inno- 
cent routine  of  toil  and  meals  and  talk  and  sleep, 
as  on  some  one  who  was  beautiful  and  lovely,  but 
now  dead.  In  her  place  was  a  sharp,  cynical 
young  woman.  Well  for  Rhona  that  her  sen- 
tence was  but  five  days ! 

The  next  afternoon  she  was  scrubbing  down 
278 


THE    WORKHOUSE 

the  long  corridor  between   the   cells  when  the 
matron  came,  jangling  her  keys. 

"Some  one  here  for  you,"  said  the  matron. 

Rhona  leaped  up. 

' '  My  mother  ?"  she  cried  out,  in  a  piercing  voice. 

"See  here,"  said  the  matron,  "you  want  to  go 
easy — and  only  five  minutes,  mind  you." 

"My  mother?"  Rhona  repeated,  her  heart  near 
to  bursting. 

"No — some  one  else.     Come  along." 

Rhona  followed,  half  choking.  The  big  door 
was  unlocked  before  her  and  swung  open;  she 
peered  out.  It  was  Joe  and  Myra. 

Seeing  these  faces  of  friends  suddenly  recalled 
her  to  her  old  world,  to  the  struggle,  the  heroism, 
the  strike,  and,  filled  with  a  sense  of  her  imprison- 
ment and  its  injustice,  she  rushed  blindly  out 
into  the  open  arms  of  Myra  and  was  clutched 
close,  close. 

And  then  she  sobbed,  wept  for  minutes,  purify- 
ing tears.  And  suddenly  she  had  an  inspiration, 
a  flash  of  the  meaning  of  her  martyrdom,  how  it 
could  be  used  as  a  fire  and  a  torch  to  kindle  and 
lead  the  others. 

She  lifted  up  her  face. 

"You  tell  the  girls,"  she  cried,  "it's  perfectly 
wonderful  to  be  here.  It's  all  right.  Just  you 
tell  them  it's  all  right.  Any  of  them  would  be 
glad  to  do  it!" 

And  then  the  matron,  who  was  listening, 
stepped  forward. 

279 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

" Time's  up !" 

There  was  one  kiss,  one  hug,  and  the  brave  girl 
was  led  away.  The  door  slammed  her  in. 

Joe  and  Myra  looked  at  each  other,  awed, 
thrilled.  Tears  trickled  down  Myra's  face. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  low,  "isn't  it  lovely?  Isn't  it 
wonderful?" 

He  spoke  softly. 

"The  day  of  miracles  isn't  over.  Women 
keep  on  amazing  me.  Come !" 

Quietly  they  walked  out  into  the  warm,  sun- 
shiny day.  Streaks  of  snow  were  vanishing  in 
visible  steam.  The  sky  was  a  soft  blue,  bulbous 
with  little  puffs  of  cloud.  Myra  felt  an  ineffable 
peace.  Rhona's  heroism  had  filled  her  with  a 
new  sense  of  human  power.  She  longed  to  speak 
with  Joe — she  longed,  as  they  stood  on  the  ferry, 
and  glided  softly  through  the  wash  and  sway  of 
the  East  River,  to  share  her  sweet  emotions  with 
him.  But  he  had  pulled  out  a  note-book  and 
was  busily  making  jottings.  He  seemed,  if  any- 
thing, more  worn  than  ever,  more  tired.  He 
was  living  on  his  nerves.  The  gray  face  was 
enough  to  bring  tears  to  a  woman's  eyes,  and  the 
lank,  ill-clothed  form  seemed  in  danger  of  thin- 
ning away  to  nothingness.  So  Myra  said  nothing, 
but  kept  looking  at  him,  trying  to  save  him  by  her 
strength  of  love,  trying  to  send  out  those  warm 
currents  and  wrap  him  up  and  infuse  him  with 
life  and  light  and  joy. 

All  the  way  out  he  had  been  silent,  preoccq- 


THE    WORKHOUSE 

pied.  In  fact,  all  these  three  days  he  had  been 
preoccupied — toiling  terribly  early  and  late, 
busy,  the  center  of  a  swarm  of  human  activities, 
his  voice  everywhere,  his  pen  in  his  hand.  Meals 
he  ate  at  his  desk  while  he  wrote,  and  sleep  was 
gained  in  little  snatches.  Myra  had  been  there 
to  watch  him,  there  to  help  him.  Since  that 
night  in  the  court,  she  had  come  early  and  stayed 
until  ten  in  the  evening,  doing  what  work  she 
could.  And  there  was  much  to  be  done — she 
found  a  profitable  task  in  instructing  new  recruits 
in  the  rules  of  picketing — and  also  in  investigat- 
ing cases  of  need.  These  took  her  to  strange 
places.  She  had  vistas  of  life  she  had  not  dreamed 
to  be  true — misery  she  had  thought  confined  to 
novels,  to  books  like  Les  Misfrables.  It  was  all 
wonderful  and  strange  and  new.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  really  know  the  life  of  the  Greater 
Number — the  life  of  the  Nine-Tenths — and  as  she 
got  used  to  the  dust,  the  smells,  and  the  squalor, 
she  found  daily  all  the  richness  of  human  nature. 
It  was  dramatic,  absorbing,  real.  Where  was  it 
leading  her  ?  She  hardly  knew  yet.  The  strange- 
ness had  not  worn  off. 

She  had  been  watching  Joe,  and  she  felt  that  he 
was  hardly  aware  of  her  presence.  He  took  her 
and  her  work  as  a  matter  of  course.  And  this  did 
not  embitter  her,  for  she  felt  that  the  time  had 
passed  for  privileges,  that  this  was  a  season  in 
Joe's  life  when  he  belonged  to  a  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple, to  a  great  cause,  and  that  she  had  no  right  to 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

any  part  of  his  life.  He  was  so  deep  in  it,  so 
overwrought,  that  it  was  best  to  let  him  alone, 
to  keep  him  free  from  the  responsibility  of 
personal  relationships,  not  to  burden  him  with 
added  emotionalism.  And  so  she  accepted  the 
rule  of  Joe's  mother — to  do  Joe's  bidding  without 
question,  to  let  him  have  his  way,  waiting  pa- 
tiently for  the  time  when  he  would  need  and  cry 
out  for  the  personal.  When  that  time  came  the 
two  women  were  ready  to  help  to  heal,  to  nurse — 
to  bind  the  wounds  and  soothe  the  troubled  heart, 
and  rebuild  the  broken  spirit.  It  might  be,  of 
course,  that  in  the  end  he  would  shut  Myra  out; 
that  was  a  contingency  she  had  to  face ;  but  she 
thought  that,  whatever  came,  she  was  getting 
herself  equal  to  it. 

They  left  the  ferry  and  walked  over  to  Second 
Avenue  and  took  an  elevated  train.  Then  Joe 
spoke — leaning  near,  his  voice  gentle : 

"Myra." 

"Yes,  Joe." 

"I've  been  wondering." 

"What?" 

"About  this  strike  business.  Wondering  if  it 
isn't  mostly  waste." 

She  found  herself  saying  eagerly : 

1 '  But  what  else  can  the  people  do  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"In  this  country  if  men  only  voted  right  .  .  . 
only  had  the  right  sort  of  government.  .  .  . 
What  are  they  gaining  this  way  ?  It's  too  costly." 

282 


THE   WORKHOUSE 

"But  how  are  they  going  to  vote  right  ?" 

' '  Education !' '  he  exclaimed.  ' '  Training !  We 
must  train  the  children  in  democracy.  We  must 
get  at  the  children." 

Myra  was  amazed. 

"Then  you  think  your  work  is  ...  of  the 
wrong  sort?" 

"No!  no!"  he  said.  "Everything  helps — we 
must  try  every  way — I  may  not  be  fit  for  any 
other  way  than  this.  But  I'm  beginning  to 
think  it  isn't  of  the  best  sort.  Maybe  it's  the 
only  thing  to  do  to-day,  however." 

She  began  to  throb  with  a  great  hope. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  cried,  "you  ought  to  go 
off  and  take  a  rest  and  think  it  over  ?  You  know 
you  might  go  into  politics,  to  Congress,  or  some- 
thing— then  you  could  really  do  something." 

He  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 

"How  you're  thinking  these  days!"  he  mused. 
But  then  he  went  on  very  wearily.  "Rest? 
Myra,"  his  voice  sank,  "if  I  ever  come  out  of  this 
alive,  I'll  rest — rest  deep,  rest  deep.  But  there's 
no  end — no  end  to  it.  .  .  ." 

He  reverted  to  the  problem  of  the  strike. 

"Don't  you  think  there's  right  on  the  other 
side,  too?  Don't  you  think  many  of  the  em- 
ployers are  doing  all  they  can  under  present  con- 
ditions? We're  asking  too  much.  We  want 
men  to  change  their  methods  before  we  change 
conditions.  Who  can  do  it?  I  tell  you,  I  may 
be  wronging  as  fine  a  lot  of  men  as  there  are." 

283 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

"Then  why  did  you  go  into  it?"  she  asked, 
quickly. 

"I  didn't.  It  came  to  me.  It  bore  me  under. 
But  I  haven't  made  a  mistake  this  time.  By 
chance  I'm  on  the  righter  side,  the  better  side. 
When  it  comes  to  the  women  in  industry,  there's 
no  question.  It  is  killing  the  future  to  work 
them  this  way — it  is  intolerable,  inhuman,  in- 
sane. We  must  stop  it — and  as  we  don't  vote 
right,  we  must  strike.  A  strike  is  justified  these 
days — will  be,  until  there's  some  other  way  of 
getting  justice.  Anyway,  this  time,"  he  said, 
fiercely,  "I'm  right.  But  I'm  wondering  about 
the  future.  I'm  wondering.  ..." 

He  said  nothing  further,  digging  again  at  his 
notes.  But  Myra  now  nourished  a  hope,  a  secret 
throbbing  hope  .  .  .  the  first  ray  of  a  new  and 
more  confident  morning. 


XII 

CONFIDENT    MORNING 

MYRA  moved  down  to  West  Tenth  Street. 
She  found  a  neat,  little  hall  bedroom  in  one 
of  the  three-story  brick  houses — a  little  white 
room,  white-curtained,  white-walled,  with  white 
counterpane  on  the  iron  bed.  She  was  well 
content  with  these  narrow  quarters,  content  be- 
cause it  was  near  Joe,  content  because  it  saved 
money  (her  savings  were  dwindling  rapidly  these 
days) ,  and  finally  content  because  she  had  shifted 
the  center  of  her  interests  to  a  different  set  of 
facts.  She  was  both  too  busy  and  too  aroused  to 
be  sensitive  about  running  water  and  the  minor 
comforts.  Her  whole  being  was  engrossed  in 
large  activities,  and  she  found  with  astonishment 
how  many  things  she  could  do  without.  What 
previously  had  seemed  so  important,  poetry, 
music,  dress,  quiet,  ease,  now  became  little 
things  lost  in  a  host  of  new  big  events.  And, 
curiously  enough,  she  found  a  new  happiness  in 
this  freedom  from  superfluities — a  sense  of  range 
and  independence  new  to  her.  For  at  this  time 
such  things  actually  were  superfluous,  though  the 

285 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

time  was  to  come  again  when  music  and  poetry 
had  a  new  and  heightened  meaning. 

But  during  these  days  of  the  strike  she  was  a 
quite  free  woman,  snatching  her  sleep  and  her 
food  carelessly,  and  putting  in  her  time  in  spend- 
ing heart  and  soul  on  the  problem  in  hand.  She 
dressed  simply,  in  shirtwaist  and  skirt,  and  she 
moved  among  the  people  as  if  she  were  one  of 
them,  and  with  no  sense  of  contrast.  In  fact, 
Myra  was  changing,  changing  rapidly.  Her 
work  called  for  a  new  set  of  powers,  and  without 
hesitation  these  new  powers  rose  within  her, 
emerged  and  became  a  part  of  her  character. 
She  became  executive,  quick,  stepped  into  any 
situation  that  confronted  her,  knew  when  to  be 
mild,  when  to  be  sharp,  sensed  where  sympathy 
was  needed,  and  also  where  sympathy  merely 
softened  and  ruined.  Her  face,  too,  followed 
this  inner  change.  Soft  lines  merged  into  some- 
thing more  vivid.  She  was  usually  pale,  and  her 
sweet,  small  mouth  had  a  weary  droop,  but  her 
eyes  were  keen  and  living,  and  lit  with  vital 
force. 

She  began  to  see  that  a  life  of  ease  and  a  life  of 
extreme  toil  were  both  equally  bad — that  each 
choked  off  possibilities.  She  knew  then  that 
women  of  her  type  walked  about  with  hidden 
powers  unused,  their  lives  narrowed  and  blighted, 
negative  people  who  only  needed  some  great  test, 
some  supreme  task,  to  bring  out  those  hidden 
forces,  which,  gushing  through  the  soul,  over- 

286 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

flowing,  would  make  of  them  characters  of 
abounding  vitality.  She  felt  the  glory  of  men 
and  women  who  go  about  the  world  bubbling 
over  with  freshness  and  zest  and  life,  warm- 
ing the  lives  they  move  among,  spreading  by 
quick  contagion  their  faith  and  virility.  She 
longed  to  be  such  a  person — to  train  herself  in 
that  greatest  of  all  the  arts — the  touching  of 
other  lives,  drawing  a  music  from  long-disused 
heart-strings,  rekindling,  reanimating,  the  torpid 
spirit.  It  was  her  search  for  more  life — richer, 
thicker,  happier,  more  intense. 

Her  model  was  Joe's  mother.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Joe's  mother  had  met  life  and  conquered  it, 
and  so  would  never  grow  old.  She  never  found 
the  older  woman  soured  or  bitter  or  enfeebled. 
Even  about  death  there  was  no  flinching. 

"Don't  you  think  I  know/'  said  Joe's  mother, 
"that  there  is  something  precious  in  me  that  isn't 
going  to  go  with  the  body?  Just  look  at  this 
body!  That's  just  what's  happening  already! 
I'm  too  young  to  die.  And  besides  I  know  one  or 
two  people  whom  I  lost  years  ago — too  precious 
to  be  lost — I've  faith  in  them." 

This,  then,  is  the  greatest  victory  of  life:  to 
treat  death  as  a  mere  incident  in  the  adventure ; 
an  emigration  to  a  new  country;  a  brief  and 
tragic  "auf  wiedersehen."  It  has  its  pang  of 
parting,  and  its  pain  of  new  birth — all  birth  is  a 
struggle  full  of  pain — but  it  is  the  only  door  to 
the  future.  Well  for  Joe's  mother  that  her  hand 

287 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

was  ready  to  grasp  the  dark  knob  and  turn  it 
when  the  time  came. 

Once  as  she  and  Joe's  mother  were  snatching  a 
lunch  together  in  the  kitchen,  the  elder  woman 
spoke  softly: 

'  *  Myra,  you're  a  great  girl !"  (She  persisted  in 
calling  Myra  a  girl,  though  Myra  kept  telling  her 
she  was  nearly  thirty-three  and  old  enough  to  be 
dignified.)  "What  will  I  ever  do  without  you 
when  the  strike  is  over?" 

Myra  smiled, 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

"Yes,  and  getting  worse,  Myra!" 

Myra  flushed  with  joy. 

"I'm  glad.     I'm  very  glad." 

Joe's  mother  watched  her  a  little. 

"How  have  you  been  feeling,  Myra?" 

"!?-_»  Myra  was  surprised.  "Oh,  I'm  all 
right !  I  haven't  time  to  be  unwell." 

"You  really  think  you're  all  right,  then?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it!  This  busy  life  is  doing  me 
good." 

"It  does  most  of  us  good."  She  changed  the 
subject. 

Myra  felt,  with  great  happiness,  that  she  was 
coming  into  harmony  with  Joe's  mother.  She 
would  have  been  quite  amazed,  however,  to  know 
that  Joe's  mother  was  secretly  struggling  to 
adjust  herself.  For  Joe's  mother  could  not  help 
thinking  that  the  time  might  come  when  Joe  and 
Myra  would  marry,  and  she  was  schooling  herself 

288 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

for  this  momentous  change.  She  kept  telling 
herself :  ' '  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  I  ought  to 
love  more  than  the  woman  that  Joe  loves  and 
weds."  And  yet  it  was  hard  to  release  her  son, 
to  take  that  life  which  had  for  years  been  closest 
to  her,  and  had  been  partly  in  her  hands,  relin- 
quish it  and  give  it  over  into  the  keeping  of  an- 
other. There  were  times,  however,  when  she 
pitied  Myra,  pitied  her  because  Joe  was  engrossed 
in  his  work  and  had  no  emotions  or  thoughts  to 
spare.  And  she  wondered  at  such  times  whether 
Joe  would  ever  marry,  whether  he  would  ever  be 
willing  to  make  his  life  still  more  complex.  She 
watched  Myra  closely,  with  growing  admiration; 
saw  the  changes  in  her,  the  faithful  struggle,  the 
on-surging  power,  and  she  thought : 

"If  it's  to  be  any  one,  I  know  no  one  I  should 
love  more." 

There  were  times,  however,  when  she  mentally 
set  Myra  side  by  side  with  Sally,  to  the  former's 
overshadowing.  Sally  was  so  clean-cut,  direct, 
such  a  positive  character.  She  was  hardy  and 
self-contained,  and  would  never  be  dependent. 
Her  relationships  with  Joe  always  implied  inter- 
dependence, a  perfect  give  and  take,  a  close  yet 
easy  comradeship  which  enabled  her  at  any  time 
to  go  her  own  way  and  work  her  own  will.  Some- 
times Joe's  mother  felt  that  Sally  was  a  woman  of 
the  future,  and  that,  with  such,  marriage  would 
become  a  finer  and  freer  union.  However,  her 
imaginative  match-making  made  her  smile,  and 
19  289 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

she  thought:  "Joe  won't  pick  a  mate  with  his 
head.  The  thing  will  just  happen  to  him — or 
not."  And  as  she  came  to  know  Myra  better, 
she  began  to  feel  that  possibly  a  woman  who 
would  take  Joe  away  from  his  work,  instead  of 
involving  him  deeper,  would,  in  the  end,  be  best 
for  him.  Such  a  woman  would  mean  peace, 
relaxation,  diversion.  She  was  greatly  con- 
cerned over  Joe's  absorption  in  the  strike,  and 
once,  when  it  appeared  that  the  struggle  might 
go  on  endlessly,  she  said  to  Myra : 

"Sometimes  I  think  Joe  puts  life  off  too  much, 
pushing  his  joys  into  the  future,  not  always 
remembering  that  he  will  never  be  more  alive 
than  now,  and  that  the  days  are  being  lopped 
off." 

Myra  had  a  little  table  of  her  own,  near  the 
door,  and  this  table,  when  she  was  there,  was 
always  a  busy  center.  The  girls  liked  her,  liked 
to  talk  with  her,  were  fond  of  her  musical  voice 
and  her  quiet  manners.  Some  even  got  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  her  room  with  her  and  having 
quiet  talks  about  their  lives.  Sally,  however, 
did  not  share  this  fondness  for  Myra.  She  felt 
that  Myra  was  an  intruder — that  Myra  was  inter- 
posing a  wall  between  her  and  Joe — and  she 
resented  the  intrusion.  She  could  not  help 
noticing  that  Joe  was  becoming  more  and  more 
impersonal  with  her,  but  then,  she  thought, 
"people  are  not  persons  to  him  any  more;  he's 
swallowed  up  in  the  cause."  Luckily  she  was 

290 


CONFIDENT   MORNING 

too  busy  during  the  day,  too  tired  at  night,  to 
brood  much  on  the  matter.  However,  one  eve- 
ning at  committee  meeting,  her  moment  of  reali- 
zation came.  The  committee,  including  Myra 
and  Joe  and  herself  and  some  five  others,  were 
sitting  about  the  hot  stove,  discussing  the  call  of 
a  Local  on  the  East  Side  for  a  capable  organizer. 

"It's  hard  to  spare  anyone,"  mused  Joe,  "and 
yet — "  He  looked  about  the  circle.  "There's 
Miss  Craig  and — Miss  Heffer." 

Both  Myra  and  Sally  turned  pale  and  trembled 
a  little.  Each  felt  as  if  the  moment  had  come 
when  he  would  shut  one  or  the  other  out  of  his 
life.  Sally  spoke  in  a  low  voice : 

"I'm  pretty  busy  right  here,  Mr.  Joe." 

"I  know,"  he  reflected.  "And  I  guess  Miss 
Craig  could  do  it." 

He  opened  the  stove  door,  took  the  tiny  shovel, 
stuck  it  into  the  coal-box,  and  threw  some  fresh 
coal  on  the  lividly  red  embers.  Then  he  stood 
up  and  gazed  round  the  circle  again. 

"Sally,"  he  said,  "it's  your  work — you'll  have 
to  go." 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"You're  sure,"  she  murmured,  "I'm  not 
needed  here?" 

"Needed?"  he  mused.  "Yes.  But  needed 
more  over  there!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  met  his  eyes.  Her 
own  were  pleading  with  him. 

"Surely?" 

291 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

''Surely,  Sally.  We're  not  in  this  game  for 
fun,  are  we?" 

4 'I'll  do  as  you  say,"  she  breathed. 

Her  head  began  to  swim;  she  felt  as  if  she 
would  break  down  and  cry.  She  arose. 

'Til  be  right  back." 

She  groped  her  way  through  the  inner  rooms 
to  the  kitchen.  Joe's  mother  was  reading. 

"Mrs.  Elaine.  .  .  ." 

' '  Sally !    What's  the  matter  ?' ' 

Joe's  mother  arose. 

"I'm  going  .  .  .  going  to  another  Local.  .  .  . 
I'm  leaving  here  to-night  ...  for  good  and 
always." 

Joe's  mother  drew  her  close,  and  Sally  sobbed 
openly. 

"It's  been  my  home  here — the  first  I've  had  in 
years — but  I'll  never  come  back." 

"Oh,  you  must  come  back." 

"No.  .  .  ."  she  looked  up  bravely.  "Mrs. 
Elaine." 

"Yes,  Sally." 

' '  He  doesn't  need  me  any  more ;  he's  outgrown 
me;  he  doesn't  need  any  one  now." 

What  could  Joe's  mother  say? 

"Sally!"  she  cried,  and  then  she  murmured: 
"It's  you  who  don't  need  any  one,  Sally.  You're 
strong  and  independent.  You  can  live  your 
own  live.  And  you've  helped  make  Joe  strong. 
Wait,  and  see." 

And  she  went  on  to  speak  of  Sally's  work,  of 
292 


CONFIDENT   MORNING 

her  influence  in  the  place,  of  the  joy  she  brought 
to  others,  and  finally  Sally  said : 

''Forgive  me  for  coming  to  you  like  a  baby." 

"Oh,  it's  fine  of  you  to  come  to  me!" 

"So,"  cried  Sally,  "good-by." 

She  found  her  hat  and  coat  and  slipped  away, 
not  daring  to  say  good-by  to  Joe.  But  as  she 
went  through  the  dark  winter  night  she  realized 
how  one  person's  happiness  is  often  built  on  an- 
other's tragedy.  And  so  Sally  went,  dropping 
for  the  time  being  out  of  Joe's  life. 

There  was  one  event  that  took  place  two  weeks 
after  Myra's  coming,  which  she  did  not  soon  for- 
get. It  was  the  great  mass-meeting  to  celebrate 
the  return  of  Rhona  and  some  others  who  had 
also  been  sent  to  the  workhouse.  Myra  and  Joe 
sat  together.  After  the  music,  the  speeches, 
Rhona  stepped  forward,  slim,  pale,  and  very 
little  before  that  gigantic  auditorium.  She 
spoke  simply. 

"I  was  picketing  on  Great  Jones  Street.  A 
man  came  up  and  struck  me.  I  had  him  ar- 
rested. But  in  court  he  said  I  struck  him,  and 
the  judge  sent  me  to  Blackwells  Island.  I  had 
to  scrub  floors.  But  it  was  only  for  five  days. 
I  think  we  ought  all  to  be  glad  to  go  to  the  work- 
house, because  that  will  help  women  to  be  free 
and  help  the  strikers.  I'm  glad  I  went.  It 
wasn't  anything  much." 

They  cheered  her,  for  they  saw  before  them  a 
293 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

young  heroine,  victorious,  beloved,  ideal.  But 
when  Myra  called  at  Hester  Street,  a  week  later, 
Rhona's  mother  had  something  else  to  say. 

"Rhona?  Well,  you  had  ought  to  seen  her 
when  we  first  landed!  Ah!  she  was  a  beauty, 
my  Rhona — such  cheeks,  such  hair,  such  eyes — 
laughing  all  the  time.  But  now — ach!"  She 
sighed  dreadfully.  "So  it  goes.  Only,  I  wished 
she  wasn't  always  so  afraid — afraid  to  go  out  .  .  . 
afraid  ...  so  nervous  ...  so  ...  different." 

Myra  never  forgot  this.  It  sent  her  back  to 
her  work  with  wiser  and  deeper  purpose.  And  so 
she  fought  side  by  side  with  Joe  through  the 
blacks  weeks  of  that  January.  It  seemed  strange 
that  Joe  didn't  go  under.  He  loomed  about  the 
place,  a  big,  stoop-shouldered,  gaunt  man,  with 
tragic  gray  face  and  melancholy  eyes  and  deepen- 
ing wrinkles.  All  the  tragedy  and  pathos  and 
struggle  of  the  strike  were  marked  upon  his 
features.  His  face  summed  up  the  sorrows  of 
the  thirty  thousand.  Myra  sometimes  expected 
him  to  collapse  utterly.  But  he  bore  on,  from 
day  to  day,  doing  his  work,  meeting  his  com- 
mittees, and  getting  out  the  paper. 

Here,  too,  Myra  found  she  could  help  him. 
She  insisted  on  writing  the  strike  articles,  and  as 
Jacob  Izon  was  also  writing,  there  was  only  the 
editorial  for  Joe  to  do.  The  paper  did  not  miss 
an  issue,  and  as  it  now  had  innumerable  can- 
vassers among  the  strikers,  its  circulation  gained 
rapidly — rising  finally  to  20,000. 

294 


CONFIDENT   MORNING 

Even  at  this  time  Joe  seemed  to  take  no  special 
notice  of  Myra.  But  one  slushy,  misty  night, 
when  the  gas-lamps  had  rainbow  haloes,  and  gray 
figures  sluff-sluffed  through  the  muddy  snow,  she 
accompanied  Joe  on  one  of  his  fund-raising  tours. 
They  entered  the  side  door  of  a  dingy  saloon, 
passed  through  a  yellow  hall,  and  emerged  finally 
on  the  platform  of  a  large  and  noisy  rear  room 
where  several  hundred  members  of  the  Team- 
sters' Union  were  holding  a  meeting.  Gas  flared 
above  the  rough  and  elemental  faces,  and  Myra 
felt  acutely  self-conscious  under  that  concen- 
trated broadside  of  eyes.  She  sat  very  still, 
flushing,  and  feebly  smiling,  while  the  outdoor 
city  men  blew  the  air  white  and  black  with  smoke 
and  raised  the  temperature  to  the  sweating-point. 

Joe  was  introduced;  the  men  clapped;  and 
then  he  tried  hard  to  arouse  their  altruism — to 
get  them  to  donate  to  the  strike  out  of  their  union 
funds.  However,  his  speech  came  limp  and  a 
little  stale.  The  applause  was  good-natured  but 
feeble.  Joe  sat  down,  sighing,  and  smiling 
grimly. 

An  amazing  yet  natural  thing  happened.  The 
Chairman  arose,  leaned  over  his  table,  and  said : 

"You  have  heard  from  Mr.  Joe  Blaine;  now 
you  will  hear  from  the  other  member  of  the  com- 
mittee." 

Not  for  some  seconds — not  until  the  stamping 
of  feet  rose  to  a  fury  of  sound — did  Myra  realize 
that  she  was  the  other  member.  She  had  a  sense 

295 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

of  being  drained  of  life,  of  losing  her  breath. 
Instinctively  she  glanced  at  Joe,  and  saw  that  he 
was  looking  at  her  a  little  dubiously,  a  little 
amusedly.  What  could  she  do  ?  She  had  never 
addressed  a  meeting  in  her  life;  she  had  never 
stood  on  her  feet  before  a  group  of  men ;  she  had 
nothing  learned,  nothing  to  say.  But  how  could 
she  excuse  herself,  how  withdraw,  especially  in 
the  face  of  Joe's  challenging  gaze  ? 

The  stamping  increased;  the  men  clapped; 
and  there  were  shouts : 

1 '  Come  ahead !  Come  on !  That's  right,  Miss. ' ' 
It  was  a  cruel  test,  a  wicked  predicament. 
All  the  old  timidity  and  sensitiveness  of  her 
nature  held  her  back,  made  her  tremble,  and 
bathed  her  face  in  perspiration.  But  a  new 
Myra  kept  saying : 

1  'Joe  didn't  rouse  them.  Some  one  must." 
She  set  her  feet  on  the  floor,  and  the  deafening 
thunder  of  applause  seemed  to  raise  her.  She 
took  a  step  forward.  And  then  with  a  queer 
motion  she  raised  her  hand.  There  was  an 
appalling  silence,  a  silence  more  dreadful  than  the 
noise,  and  Myra  felt  her  tongue  dry  to  its  root. 

"I — "  she  began,  "I  want  to  say — tell  you — " 
She  paused,  startled  by  the  queer  sound  of  her 
own  voice.  She  could  not  believe  it  was  herself 
speaking;  it  seemed  some  one  else.  And  then, 
sharply,  a  wonderful  thing  took  place.  A  surge 
of  strength  filled  her.  She  took  a  good  look 
around.  Her  brain  cleared;  her  heart  slowed. 

296 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

It  was  the  old  trick  of  facing  the  worst,  and  find- 
ing the  strength  was  there  to  meet  it  and  turn  it 
to  the  best.  All  at  once  Myra  exulted.  She 
would  take  these  hundreds  of  human  beings  and 
swing  them.  She  could  do  it. 

Her  voice  was  rich,  vibrating,  melodious. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  a  little  about  this  strike — 
what  it  'means.  I  want  to  tell  you  what  the  girls 
and  women  of  this  city  are  capable  of — what 
heroism,  what  toil,  what  sacrifice  and  nobility. 
It  is  not  the  easiest  thing  to  live  a  normal  wo- 
man's life.  You  know  that.  You  know  how 
your  mothers  or  wives  or  sisters  have  been  slaving 
and  stinting — what  pain  is  theirs,  what  burdens, 
what  troubles.  But  think  of  the  life  of  a  girl  of 
whom  I  shall  tell  you — a  young  girl  by  the  name 
of  Rhona  Hemlitz." 

She  went  on.  She  told  the  story  of  Rhona' s 
life,  and  then  quietly  she  turned  to  her  theme. 

"You  understand  now,  don't  you?  Are  you 
going  to  help  these  girls  win  their  fight  ?" 

The  walls  trembled  with  what  followed — 
stamping,  shouting,  clapping.  Myra  sat  down, 
her  cheeks  red,  her  eyes  brilliant.  And  then 
suddenly  a  big  hand  closed  over  hers  and  a  deep 
voice  whispered: 

"Myra,  you  set  yourself  free  then.  You  are  a 
new  woman!" 

That  was  all.  She  had  shocked  Joe  with  the 
fact  of. the  new  Myra,  and  now  the  new  Myra 
had  come  to  stay.  They  raised  twenty-five 

297 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

dollars  that  night.  From  that  time  on  Myra  was 
a  free  and  strong  personality,  surprising  even 
Joe's  mother,  who  began  to  realize  that  this  was 
not  the  woman  to  take  Joe  from  his  work,  but  one 
who  would  fight  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him 
until  the  very  end. 

In  the  beginning  of  February  the  strike  began 
to  fade  out.  Employers  right  and  left  were 
making  compromises  with  the  girls,  and  here  and 
there  girls  were  deserting  the  union  and  going 
back.  The  office  at  West  Tenth  Street  became 
less  crowded,  fewer  girls  came,  fewer  committees 
met.  There  was  one  night  when  the  work  was  all 
done  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  this  marked  the 
reappearance  of  normal  conditions. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  later  that  a  vital  experi- 
ence came  to  Joe.  Snow  was  falling  outside,  and 
it  was  near  twilight,  and  in  the  quiet  Joe  was 
busy  at  his  desk.  Then  a  man  came  in,  well,  but 
carelessly  dressed,  his  face  pinched  and  haggard, 
his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  hair  in  stray  tufts  over  his 
wrinkled  forehead. 

"I  want  to  see  you  a  minute,  Mr.  Elaine. " 

The  voice  was  shaking  with  passion. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Joe,  and  the  man  took  the 
seat  beside  him. 

"I'm  Mr.  Lissner — Albert  Lissner — I  was  the 
owner  of  the  Lissner  Shirtwaist  Company." 

Joe  looked  at  him. 

"Lissner  ?     Oh  yes,  over  on  Eighth  Street." 

The  man  went  on : 

298 


CONFIDENT   MORNING 

"Mr.  Blaine,  I  had  eighty  girls  working  for  me. 
...  I  always  did  all  I  could  for  them  .  .  .  but 
there  was  fierce  competition,  and  I  was  just 
skimping  along,  and  I  had  to  pay  small  wages; 
.  .  .  but  I  was  good  to  those  girls.  .  .  .  They 
didn't  want  to  strike  .  .  .  the  others  made 
them.  .  .  ." 

Joe  was  stirred. 

"Yes,  I  know  .  .  .  many  of  the  shops  were 
good.  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  said  Lissner,  with  a  shaking,  bitter 
smile,  "you  and  your  strike  have  ruined  me.  .  .  . 
I'm  a  ruined  man.  .  .  .  My  family  and  I  have 
lost  everything.  .  .  .  And,  it's  killed  my  wife." 

His  face  became  terrible — very  white,  and  the 
eyes  staring — he  went  on  in  a  hollow,  low  voice : 

"I— I've  lost  all" 

There  was  a  silence;  then  Lissner  spoke 
queerly : 

"I  happen  to  know  about  you,  Mr.  Blaine.  .  .  . 
You  were  the  head  of  that  printing-place  that 
burnt  down.  ..." 

Joe  felt  a  shock  go  through  him,  as  if  he  had 
seen  a  ghost.  .  .  . 

"Well,  maybe  you  did  all  you  could  for  your 
men;  .  .  .  maybe  you  were  a  good  employer. 
.  .  .  Yet  see  what  came  of  it.  .  .  ."  Suddenly 
Lissner 's  voice  rose  passionately:  "And  yet  you 
had  the  nerve  to  come  around  and  get  after  us 
fellows,  who  were  just  as  good  as  you.  There 
are  bad  employers,  and  bad  employees,  too — bad 

299 


THE   NINE-TENTHS 

people  of  every  kind — but  maybe  most  people 
are  good.  You  couldn't  help  what  happened  to 
you ;  neither  can  we  help  it  if  the  struggle  is  too 
fierce — we're  victims,  too.  It's  conditions,  it's 
life.  We  can't  change  the  world  in  a  day.  And 
yet  you — after  your  fire — come  here  and  ruin  us." 
Joe  was  shaken  to  his  depths.  Lissner  had 
made  an  overstatement,  and  yet  he  had  thrown 
a  new  light  on  the  strike,  and  he  had  reminded 
Joe  of  his  long-forgotten  guilt.  And  suddenly 
Joe  knew.  All  are  guilty;  all  share  in  the  cor- 
ruption of  the  world — the  laborer  anxious  for 
mass-tyranny  and  distrustful  of  genius,  the  aris- 
tocrat afraid  of  soiling  his  hands,  the  capitalist 
intent  on  power  and  wealth,  the  artist  neglect- 
ful of  all  but  a  narrow  artifice,  each  one  lim- 
ited by  excess  or  want,  by  intellect  or  passion, 
by  vanity  or  lust,  and  all  struggling  with  one  an- 
other to  wrest  some  special  gift  for  himself.  In 
the  intricacy  of  civilization  there  are  no  real 
divisions,  but  every  man  is  merely  a  brain  cell, 
a  nerve,  in  the  great  organism,  and  what  one 
man  gains,  some  other  must  lose.  It  was  a 
world  he  got  a  glimpse  of  quite  different  from  that 
sharp  twofold  world  of  the  workers  and  the 
money-power,  a  world  of  infinite  gradations,  a 
world  merely  the  child  of  the  past,  where  high  and 
low  were  pushed  by  the  resistless  pressure  of 
environment,  and  lives  were  shaped  by  birth, 
chance,  training,  position,  and  a  myriad,  myriad 
indefinable  forces. 

300 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

All  of  this  confused  him  at  first,  and  it  had 
been  so  long  since  he  had  dealt  with  theories 
that  it  was  some  time  before  the  chaos  cleared, 
some  time  before  the  welter  of  new  thought  took 
shape  in  his  mind.  But  it  made  him  humble, 
receptive,  teachable,  it  made  him  more  kindly  and 
more  gentle.  He  began  a  mental  stock-taking; 
he  began  to  examine  into  the  lives  about  him. 

Myra  was  there — the  new  Myra,  a  Myra  with 
daily  less  to  do  in  that  office,  and  with  more  and 
more  time  to  think.  From  her  heart  was  lifted 
the  hard  hand  of  circumstance,  releasing  a  tender- 
ness and  yearning  which  flooded  her  brain.  It 
was  a  tragic  time  for  her.  She  knew  now  that 
her  services  were  nearly  at  an  end,  and  that  she 
must  go  her  own  way.  She  would  not  be  near 
Joe  any  longer — she  would  not  have  the  heart's 
ease  of  his  presence — she  could  no  longer  brood 
over  him  and  protect  him. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  bear  the 
future.  Her  love  for  Joe  rose  and  overwhelmed 
her.  She  became  self-conscious  before  him, 
paled  when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  when  he  was 
away  her  longing  for  him  was  insupportable. 
She  wanted  him  now — all  her  life  cried  out  for 
him — all  the  woman  in  her  went  out  to  mate 
with  this  man.  The  same  passion  that  had 
drawn  her  from  the  country  to  his  side  now 
swayed  and  mastered  her. 

"Joe!  Joe!"  her  soul  cried,  "take  me  now! 
This  is  too  much  for  me  to  bear!" 

301 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

And  more  and  more  the  thought  of  his  health 
oppressed  her.  If  she  only  had  the  power  to 
take  him  to  her  breast,  draw  him  close  in  her 
arms,  mother  him,  heal  him,  smooth  the  wrinkles, 
kiss  the  droop  of  the  big  lips,  and  pour  her  warm 
and  infinite  love  into  his  heart.  That  surely 
must  save  him — love  surely  would  save  this  man. 

She  began  to  scheme  and  dream — to  plot  ways 
of  getting  about  him,  of  routing  him  out,  of  tear- 
ing him  from  his  rut. 

And  then  one  afternoon  at  two  she  risked  her 
all.  It  was  an  opportune  time.  Joe — wonder 
of  wonders — was  doing  nothing,  but  sitting  back 
like  a  gray  wreck,  with  his  feet  crossed  on  his 
desk,  and  a  vile  cigar  in  his  mouth.  It  was  the 
first  cigar  in  ages,  and  he  puffed  on  it  and  brooded 
dreamily. 

Myra  came  over,  sat  down  beside  him,  and 
spoke  airily. 

"Hello,  Joe!" 

"Why,  hello,  Myra!"  he  cried.  "What  d'ye 
mean  by  helloing  me?" 

"I'm  glad  to  meet  you." 

"Same  to  you." 

"I've  come  back  from  the  country,  Joe." 

"So  I  see." 

"Do  you?" 

"Haven't  I  eyes?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  flushed,  bending  forward, 
"Joe  Blaine,  where  have  your  eyes  been  these 
five  weeks?" 

302 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

"They  were  on  strike!"  he  said,  promptly. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "the  strike's  over!" 

They  laughed  together  as  they  had  not  since 
far  and  far  in  the  beginning  of  things. 

Joe  leaned  near. 

"Myra,"  he  said,  "I  need  an  airing.  Take  me 
out  and  shake  me  out!  Oh!"  he  stretched  his 
arms  above  his  head.  ' '  Have  I  been  hibernating 
and  is  it  springtime  again?" 

Myra  hesitated. 

"Joe." 

"Yes,  ma'am!" 

"I  want  you  to  take  me  somewhere." 

"I  will." 

"To — the  printery — I  want  to  see  it  again." 

"Go  'long  wid  you!  Marty  Briggs  and  me  are 
bad  friends,  see?" 

She  reveled  in  this  new  gaiety  of  his. 

"Joe,  you're  waking  up.     Please  take  me !" 

"Put  on  your  hat,  your  coat,  and  your  little 
black  gloves,  young  woman.  Me  for  the  print- 
ery!" 

They  went  out  together,  glad  as  young  chil- 
dren. The  world  was  sheathed  in  a  hard  ice- 
coated  snow;  icicles  dangled  from  every  sill  and 
cornice ;  the  skies  were  melting  blue,  and  the  sun 
flashed  along  every  surface.  It  was  a  world  of 
flashing  fire,  of  iridescent  sunbursts.  Through 
the  clean,  tingling  air  they  walked,  arm  in  arm, 
the  stir  of  a  new  life  in  their  hearts. 

"Joe,"  said  Myra,  "I  want  you  to  signalize 
303 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

your  resurrection  by  a  great  sacrifice  to  the 
gods." 

"I'm  ready.     Expound !" 

"I  want  you  to  buy  a  new  hat." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  examined  it. 

"What's  the  matter  with  this?" 

"It's  like  yourself,  Joe — worn  out!'* 

"But  the  boys  of  Eighty-first  Street  won't 
know  me  in  a  new  hat." 

"Never  mind  the  boys  of  Eighty-first  Street. 
Do  as  I  tell  you." 

"Aw,  Myra,  give  me  a  day  to  steel  my  heart 
and  strengthen  my  sinews.  Wait  till  we  come 
back." 

"And  you'll  get  it  then?" 

"Sure  as  fate." 

"Well  —  just  this  once  you'll  have  your 
way!" 

So  they  took  the  elevated  to  Seventy-sixth 
Street  and  walked  through  the  old  neighborhood 
to  the  printery.  The  familiar  streets,  which  se- 
cretly bore  the  print  of  every  size  shoe  he  had 
worn  since  he  was  a  tiny  toddling  fellow,  made 
him  meditative,  almost  sad. 

"It  seems  ages  since  I  was  here!"  he  remarked. 
"  And  yet  it's  like  yesterday.  What  have  I  been 
doing  ?  Dreaming  ?  Will  I  walk  into  the  print- 
ery, and  will  you  come  in  with  the  '  Landing  of 
the  Pilgrims'?" 

Myra  laughed,  both  glad  and  sad. 

"I  should  have  charged  you  more,"  said  Joe, 
304 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

brusquely.     "  Fifty  cents  was  too  little  for  that 
job." 

"I  told  you  it  would  ruin  your  business,  Joe." 
Strangely  then  they  thought  of  the  fire  .  .  . 
her  order  had  been  his  last  piece  of  business  be- 
fore the  tragedy. 

They  walked  east  on  Eighty-first  Street  and 
stopped  before  the  old  loft  building.  A  new  sign 
was  riveted  on  the  bulletin-board  in  the  doorway. 

MARTIN  BRIGGS 

SUCCESSOR  TO 
JOE  ELAINE  &  His  MEN. 

Joe  looked  at  it,  and  started. 

"It's  no  dream,  Myra,"  he  sighed.  "Times 
have  changed,  and  we,  too,  have  changed." 

Then  they  went  up  the  elevator  to  the  clash 
and  thunder  on  the  eighth  floor.  And  they  felt 
more  and  more  strange,  double,  as  it  were — the 
old  Myra  and  the  old  Joe  walking  with  the  new 
Myra  and  the  new  Joe.  Myra  felt  a  queerness 
about  her  heart,  a  subtle  sense  of  impending 
events;  of  great  dramatic  issues.  Something 
that  made  her  want  to  cry. 

Then  they  stood  a  moment  before  the  dirty 
door,  and  Joe  said : 

"Shall  I?  Shall  I  rouse  'em  with  the  bell? 
Shall  I  break  in  on  their  peaceful  lives  ?" 

"Rouse  away!"  cried  Myra.  "Your  hour  has 
struck!" 

20  305 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

He  pulled  the  door,  the  bell  rang  sharply,  and 
they  stepped  in.  As  of  old,  the  tremble,  the 
clatter,  the  flash  of  machines,  the  damp  smell  of 
printed  sheets,  swallowed  them  up — made  them 
a  quivering  part  of  the  place.  And  how  little  it 
had  changed!  They  stood,  almost  choking  with 
the  unchanging  change  of  things.  As  if  the  fire 
had  never  been!  As  if  Tenth  Street  had  never 
been! 

Then  at  once  the  spell  was  broken.  A  press- 
man spied  Joe  and  loosed  a  yell : 

"It's  the  old  man!" 

His  press  stopped;  his  neighbors'  presses 
stopped;  as  the  yell  went  down  the  room,  "Joe! 
Joe!  The  old  man!"  press  after  press  paused 
until  only  the  clatter  and  swing  of  the  overhead 
belting  was  heard.  And  the  men  came  running 
up. 

"Mr.  Joe!  Mr.  Joe!  Shake!  For  God's  sake, 
give  me  a  grip!  This  is  great  for  sore  eyes! 
Where  you  been  keeping  yourself?  Ain't  he  the 
limit?  He's  the  same  old  penny!  Look  at  him 
— even  his  hat's  the  same!" 

Joe  shook  hand  after  hand,  until  his  own  was 
numb.  They  crowded  about  him,  they  flung 
their  fondness  at  him,  and  he  stood,  his  eyes 
blinded  with  tears,  his  heart  rent  in  his  breast, 
and  a  new  color  climbing  to  his  cheeks. 

Then  suddenly  a  loud  voice  cried : 

' '  What '  s  the  matter  ?     What  does  this  mean  ? ' ' 

And  Marty  Briggs  emerged  from  the  office. 
306 


\ 


CONFIDENT   MORNING 

"Hello,  Marty!' 'cried  Joe. 

Marty  stood  dumfounded;  then  he  came 
with  a  rush. 

"Joe!  You  son-of-a-gun !  Beg  pardon,  Miss! 
I  ain't  seen  him  for  a  lifetime!" 

"And  how  goes  it,  Marty?  How  goes  it, 
Marty?" 

"Tip-top;  busy  as  beavers.  But,  say,"  he 
leaned  over  and  whispered,  "I've  found  a  secret." 

"What  is  it,  Marty?" 

"You  can't  run  a  business  with  your  hands  or 
lungs  or  your  manners — you  need  gray  stuff  up 
here." 

The  reception  was  a  great  success,  full  of  cross- 
questions,  of  bartered  news — as  the  arrival  of 
new  babies  christened  Joe  or  Josephine,  the  pass- 
ing of  old  babies  in  the  last  birth  of  all,  the  ab- 
sence of  old  faces,  the  presence  of  new  ones. 
Glad  talk  and  rapid,  and  only  cut  short  by  the 
urgency  of  business. 

They  sang  him  out  with  a  "He's  a  jolly  good 
fellow,"  and  he  emerged  on  the  street  with  Myra, 
his  eyes  dripping. 

Myra  spoke  softly. 

"Joe." 

"Yes,  Myra." 

"There's  one  more  thing  I  want  you  to  do  for 
me." 

"Name  it." 

"I  want  to  walk  with  you  in  the  Park." 

He  looked  at  her  strangely,  breathlessly. 
307 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"In  the  Ramble,  Myraf" 

She  met  his  gaze. 

"In  the  Ramble,  Joe." 

Silently,  with  strange,  beating  hearts  and  fore- 
glimmer  of  beauty  and  wonder  and  loveliness, 
they  walked  west  to  the  Park,  and  entered  that 
Crystal  Palace.  For  every  branch,  every  twig, 
every  stone  and  rail  had  its  pendent  ice  and 
icicle,  and  the  strong  sun  smote  the  world  with 
flakes  of  flame.  The  trees  were  showers  of  rain- 
bow-flashing glory;  now  and  then  an  icicle 
dropped  like  a  dart  of  fire,  and  the  broad  lawns 
were  sheets  of  dazzle.  Earth  was  glittering, 
fresh,  new,  decked  out  in  unimaginable  jewels 
under  the  vast  and  melting  blue  skies.  The  day 
was  tender  and  clear  and  vigorous,  tingling  with 
life. 

They  followed  the  curve  of  the  walk,  they 
crossed  the  roadway,  they  climbed  the  hill,  they 
walked  the  winding  path  of  the  Ramble. 

"You  remember  that  morning?"  murmured 
Joe,  a  music  waking  in  his  heart,  his  pulses 
thronged  with  a  new  beauty. 

"Remember  it?"  Myra  whispered.  "Yes, 
Joe,  I  remember  it." 

"That  is  the  very  bench  we  sat  on." 

"That  is  the  bench." 

"And  that  is  the  little  pond." 

"That  is  the  little  pond." 

"And  this  is  the  spot." 

"This  is  the  spot." 

308 


CONFIDENT    MORNING 

They  sat  down  on  that  bench  in  the  crystal 
wilderness,  a  man  and  woman  alone  in  the  blue- 
skied  spaces,  among  the  tree-trunks,  and  the 
circle  of  earth.  And  then  to  Myra  came  an  in- 
expressible moment  of  agony  and  longing  and 
love.  She  had  struggled  months ;  she  had  stayed 
away;  and  then  she  had  come  back,  and  merged 
her  life  in  the  life  of  this  man.  And  she  could 
bear  this  no  longer!  Oh,  Joe,  will  you  never 
speak?  Will  you  never  come  to  your  senses? 

More  and  more  color  was  rising  to  his  face, 
and  his  hands  in  his  lap  were  trembling.  He 
tried  to  speak  naturally — but  his  voice  was  odd 
and  unreal. 

"Myra." 

"Yes,"  tremulously. 

"You  must  have  thought  me  a  brute." 

"I  thought — you  were  busy,  overworked." 

"So  I  was.  I  was  swallowed  up — swallowed 
up." 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  they  heard  little 
gray  sparrows  twittering  in  the  sunlight. 

"Myra." 

He  hardly  heard  her  "yes." 

"There's  been  a  miracle  in  my  life  this  year." 

"Yes?" 

"The  way  you  came  down  and  took  hold  and 
made  good." 

"Thank  you,"  very  faintly. 

"It  was  the  biggest  thing  that  came  my  way." 

Silence. 

309 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

"I  was  noticing  it,  Myra,  out  of  the  tail  of  my 
eye." 

Myra  tried  to  laugh.  It  sounded  more  like  a 
dull  sob. 

"I  haven't  time  to  be  polite." 

"Don't  want  you  to,"  Myra  blurted. 

"Strange,"  said  Joe,  "how  things  come  about. 
Hello,  Mr.  Squirrel !  Want  a  peanut  ?  None  on 
the  premises.  Sorry.  Good-day!" 

He  leaned  over,  picked  a  bit  of  ice,  and  flung  it 
in  the  air. 

"Myra,"  he  muttered.     "I  need  a  rest." 

"You  do,"  almost  inaudible. 

"I  need —  Didn't  I  say,  no  peanuts?  No 
means  no !  Good-day !' ' 

He  turned  about  laughing. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  pesky  little 
animal?" 

"Joe!"  she  cried  in  her  agony. 

Joe  said  nothing,  but  stared,  and  a  great  sob 
shook  him  and  escaped  his  lips. 

"Myra!!" 

He  had  her  in  his  arms;  he  kissed  her  on  the 
lips — that  new  kiss,  sealing  those  others.  And 
the  wonderful  moment  came  and  went;  the 
moment  when  two  flames  leap  into  one  fire; 
when  two  lives  dashing  upon  each  other  blend 
into  one  wonderful  torrent.  They  did  not  mind 
the  publicity  of  the  place  that  afternoon;  they 
were  quite  oblivious  of  the  world.  They  were  in 
another  realm,  breathing  another  air,  treading  a 

310 


CONFIDENT   MORNING 

different  earth.  It  was  too  sacred  for  words,  too 
miraculous  for  aught  but  the  beating  of  their 
living  hearts,  the  pulse  of  singing  blood,  the 
secret  in  their  brains.  Their  years  fell  away. 
They  were  youth  itself,  dabbling  with  the  mira- 
cles of  the  world;  they  were  boy  and  girl,  new- 
created  man  and  woman.  The  world  was  a 
garden,  and  they  were  alone  in  that  garden,  and 
nothing  but  beauty  was  in  that  place.  They 
had  each  other  to  behold  and  hear  and  touch  and 
commune  with.  That  was  enough.  .  .  . 

"Joe,"  said  Myra,  when  the  first  glory  had 
faded  and  they  were  conversing  sweetly,  ''I 
made  up  my  mind  to  save  you,  and  I  did!" 

"Wonderful  woman!  And  you're  sure  now 
you  don't  mind  me — the  way  I'm  constructed  in 
the  cranium  and  all  that?" 

"I  love  you,  Joe!"  She  was  as  happy  as  a 
woman  could  be. 

"I'm  a  powerful  idiot,  Myra." 

"So  am  I." 

"Well,"  he  mused,  "you're  taking  your 
chances.  Suppose  I  go  off  into  another  strike  or 
something?" 

"I'll  go  with  you." 

"Myra,"  he  said,  "then  let's  go  home  and  tell 
mother." 

They  were  as  happy  as  children.  They  were 
well  satisfied  with  the  world.  In  fact,  they 
found  it  an  amazingly  good  place.  Every  face 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

that  passed  seemed  touched  with  beauty  and 
high  moral  purpose,  and  the  slate  of  wrong  and 
injustice  and  bitterness  had  been  sponged  clean. 

"Oh,  Myra,"  cried  Joe,  "isn't  it  great  to  know 
that  we  have  it  in  us  to  go  plumb  loony  once  in  a 
while?  Isn't  it  great?" 

And  so  they  made  their  way  home,  and  walked 
tiptoe  to  the  kitchen,  and  stood  hand  in  hand 
before  Joe's  mother.  She  wheeled. 

"Joe!     Myra!" 

Joe  gulped  heavily. 

"I've  brought  you  a  daughter,  mother,  the 
loveliest  one  I  could  find!" 

Myra  sobbed,  and  started  forward — Joe's 
mother  grasped  her  in  a  tight  hug,  tears  running 
fast. 

"It's  about  time,  Joe,"  she  cried,  "it's  just 
about  time." 


XIII 

THE   CITY 

OVER  the  city  the  Spring  cast  its  subtle  spell. 
The  skies  had  a  more  fleeting  blue  and 
softer  clouds  and  more  golden  sun.  Here  and 
there  on  a  window-sill  a  new  red  geranium  plant 
was  set  out  to  touch  the  stone  walls  with  the 
green  earth's  glory.  The  salt  breath  of  the  sea, 
wandering  up  the  dusty  avenues,  called  the 
children  of  men  to  new  adventures — hinted  of 
far  countries  across  the  world,  of  men  going  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships,  of  traffic  and  merchandise  in 
fairer  climes,  of  dripping  forest  gloom  and  glitter- 
ing peaks,  of  liquid-lisping  brooks  and  the  green 
scenery  of  the  open  earth. 

Restlessness  seized  the  hearts  of  men  and  the 
works  of  men.  From  the  almshouses  and  the 
jails  emerged  the  vagrants,  stopped  overnight  to 
meet  their  cronies  in  dives  and  saloons,  and  next 
day  took  the  freight  to  the  blooming  West,  or 
tramped  by  foot  the  dust  of  the  roads  that  leave 
the  city  and  go  ribboning  over  the  shoulder  and 
horizon  of  the  world.  Windows  were  flung  open, 
and  the  fresh  sweet  air  came  in  to  make  the  babies 
laugh  and  the  women  wistful  and  the  men  lazy. 

313 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

Factories  droned  with  machines  that  seemed  to 
grate  against  their  iron  fate.  And  of  a  night, 
now,  the  parks,  the  byways,  and  the  waterside 
were  the  haunts  of  young  lovers — stealing  out  to- 
gether, arms  round  each  other's  waists — the 
future  of  the  world  in  their  trembling  hands. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  rumor  of  great  things. 
Now,  perchance,  human  nature  at  last  was  going 
to  reveal  itself,  the  love  and  hope  and  comrade- 
liness  and  joy  tucked  away  so  deep  in  its  inter- 
linings.  Now,  possibly,  the  streets  were  going  to 
be  full  of  singing,  and  the  housetops  were  going 
to  rejoice  with  the  mellower  stars.  Anything 
was  possible.  Did  not  earth  set  an  example, 
showing  how  out  of  a  hard  dead  crust  and  a 
forlorn  and  dry  breast  she  could  pour  her  new 
oceans  of  million-glorious  life  ?  If  the  dead  tree 
could  blossom  and  put  forth  green  leaves,  what 
dead  soul  need  despair? 

Swinging  and  swaying  and  gliding,  the  great 
white  Sound  liner  came  up  on  the  morning  and 
swept  her  flag-flapped  way  down  the  shining 
river.  Her  glad  whistle  released  her  buoyant 
joy  to  the  city,  and  the  little  tugs  and  the  ferries 
answered  with  their  barks  and  their  toots.  Up 
she  came,  triple-decked,  her  screw  swirling  in  the 
green  salt  water,  her  smoke  curling  lustrous  in 
the  low-hung  sun.  She  passed  Blackwells  Is- 
land, she  swung  easily  beneath  the  great  span  of 
the  Fifty-ninth  Street  bridge,  and  gave  "good- 
morning"  to  the  lower  city. 


THE   CITY 

On  a  side-deck,  leaning  over  the  rail,  stood  a 
man  and  a  woman.  The  man  was  strong,  tan- 
faced,  his  eyes  bright  with  fresh  power.  The 
woman  was  rosy-cheeked  and  exquisite  in  her 
new  beauty.  For  the  miracle  of  Spring  which 
changed  the  earth  had  changed  Myra  and  Joe. 
They  too  had  put  forth  power  and  life,  blossom 
and  new  green  leaves.  They  had  gone  to  the 
earth  to  be  remade ;  they  had  given  themselves 
over  to  the  great  physician,  Nature;  they  had 
surrendered  to  the  soil  and  the  sun  and  the  air. 
Earth  had  absorbed  them,  infolded  them,  and 
breathed  anew  in  their  spirits  her  warmth,  her 
joy,  her  powerful  peace.  They  had  run  bare- 
headed in  the  sun ;  they  had  climbed,  panting,  the 
jutting  mountainside ;  they  had  taken  the  winds 
of  the  world  on  the  topmost  peak;  they  had 
romped  in  the  woods  and  played  in  the  meadow. 
And  then,  too,  they  had  fed  well,  and  rested 
much,  and  been  content  with  the  generous  world. 

And  in  that  health  and  peace  of  nature  at  last 
to  Joe  had  come  the  great  awakening  of  his  life. 
The  mental  stock-taking  he  had  begun  on  the  day 
when  Lissner  had  spoken  to  him,  reached  there 
its  climax;  the  confusion  cleared;  the  chaos 
took  wonderful  new  shape. 

And  he  was  amazed  to  see  how  he  had  changed 
and  grown.  He  looked  back  on  the  man  who 
had  gone  down  to  West  Tenth  Street  as  on  a 
callow  and  ignorant  youth,  enthusiastic,  but 
crude  and  untried.  Back  through  those  past 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

months  he  went  with  the  search-light  of  intro- 
spection, and  then  at  last  he  knew.  He  had 
gone  down  to  Greenwich  Village  crammed  with 
theories ;  he  had  set  to  work  as  if  he  were  a  shel- 
tered scientist  in  a  quiet  laboratory,  where  an 
experiment  could  be  carried -through,  and  there 
suddenly  he  had  been  confronted  with  Facts! 
Facts!  those  queer  unbudgable  things!  Facts 
in  a  fierce  stampede  that  engulfed  and  swept  him 
along  and  put  all  his  dreams  to  a  galloping  test, 
a  test  wherein  he  had  even  forgotten  his  dreams. 

He  had  gone  the  way  of  all  reformers,  first  the 
explosive  arousal,  then  the  theory,  then  the  test. 

He  went  over  the  Greenwich  Village  experi- 
ence with  Myra: 

"Why,"  he  laughed,  "I  expected  to  do  great 
things.  Whereas,  look,  I  have  done  nothing. 
This  strike  ends  in  a  little  bettering,  and  a  few 
people  read  my  paper.  It's  just  a  little  stir, 
hardly  a  dent — a  few  atoms  set  into  motion. 
How  slow!  how  slow!  Patience!  That's  the 
word.  I've  learned!  It  will  take  worlds  of  time; 
it  will  take  a  multitude  striving;  it  will  take 
unnumbered  forces — education,  health- work,  eu- 
genics, town-planning,  the  rise  of  women,  philan- 
thropy, law — a  thousand  thousand  dawning 
powers.  Oh,  we  are  only  at  the  faint  beginnings 
of  things!" 

And  he  thought  of  the  books  he  had  read,  and 
the  theories  of  which  he  had  -been  so  sure. 

"But,"  he  exclaimed,  "was  my  diagnosis 
316 


THE   CITY 

correct  ?  Did  I  really  know  the  human  muddle  ? 
Has  any  man  really  mapped  out  civilization? 
It's  so  huge,  complex,  varied — so  many  dis- 
organized forces — who  can  classify  it — label  it? 
It's  bigger  than  our  thought  about  it.  We  lay 
hands  on  only  a  few  wisps  of  it !  Life !  Life  it- 
self— not  our  interpretation — is  the  great  out- 
working force!" 

And  then  again. 

"We  see  certain  tendencies  and  believe  they 
will  advance  unhindered,  but  there  may  be  other 
tendencies  to  counteract,  change,  even  defeat 
these.  No  future  can  be  predicted!  And  yet  I 
was  so  sure  of  the  future — so  sure  of  what  we  are 
to  build — that  future  which  we  keep  modifying 
so  persistently  the  moment  it  hits  To-day." 

In  short,  he  had  reached  his  social  manhood — 
which  meant  to  him,  not  dogma,  but  the  willing- 
ness to  arise  every  morning  ready  to  reshape  his 
course,  prepared  for  any  adventure,  receptive, 
open-minded,  and  all  willing  to  render  his  very 
life  for  what  seemed  good  to  do.  Scientific 
reverence  this,  the  willingness  to  experiment,  to 
try,  to  test,  and  then,  if  the  test  failed,  to  grope 
for  a  new  line  of  outlet,  the  readiness  to  reverse 
all  he  believed  in  in  the  face  of  a  new  and  contra- 
dictory fact.  He  was  a  new  Joe  Elaine. 

And  so  the  spirit  that  sprang  from  those  dead 
girls  became  a  creative  power,  a  patient,  living 
strength. 

And  so  in  the  blaze  of  new  morning,  in  the  be- 
i 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

ginnings  of  a  new  life,  Joe  and  Myra  leaned  over 
the  rail  of  the  boat,  coming  back,  coming  back  to 
the  ramparts  and  heights  of  the  great  World 
City.  They  saw  full  in  the  glory  of  the  morning 
sun  those  tiers  on  tiers  of  towers  rising  to  their 
lonely  pinnacle.  Beneath  them  harbor  craft 
scurried  about  in  the  bright  waters;  above 
them  rose  the  Big  Brothers  of  the  city  looking 
out  toward  the  sea.  It  seemed  some  vision 
builded  of  no  human  hands.  It  seemed  winged 
and  uplifted  toward  the  skies,  an  immensity  of 
power  and  beauty.  It  seemed  to  float  on  meas- 
ureless waters,  a  magic  metropolis,  setting  sail 
for  the  Arabian  Nights. 

Tears  came  into  Joe's  eyes.  He  held  Myra's 
hand  fast. 

"Are  you  glad  to  get  back?" 

"Yes,  glad,  Joe." 

"No  more  peace,  no  more  green  earth,  Myra." 

"I  know  it,  Joe." 

"Even  our  honeymoon — that  can't  be  re- 
peated, can  it?" 

"No,"  she  said,  sadly,  "I  guess  it  cannot." 

"And  this  means  work,  hardship,  danger,  in- 
justice— all  the  troubles  of  mankind." 

She  pressed  his  hand. 

"Yet  you're  glad,  Myra!" 

"I  am." 

"Tell  me  why." 

"Because,"  she  mused,  "it's  the  beginning  of 
our  real  life  together." 

318 


THE   CITY 

"Howsoraj/f" 

Myra's  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears. 

"The  common  life — the  life  of  people — the 
daily  toil — the  pangs  and  the  struggles.  I'm 
hungry  for  it  all!" 

He  could  have  kissed  her  for  the  words. 

"We'll  do,  Myra,"  he  cried,  "we'll  do.  Do 
you  know  what  I  see  this  morning?'* 

"What?" 

"A  new  city!     My  old  city,  but  all  new." 

"It's  you  that  is  new,  Joe." 

"And  that's  why  I  see  the  new  city — a  vision 
I  shall  see  until  some  larger  vision  replaces  it. 
Shall  I  tell  you  about  it  ?" 

"Tell  me." 

"It  is  the  city  of  five  million  comrades.  They 
toil  all  day  with  one  another;  they  create  all  of 
beauty  and  use  that  men  may  need;  they  ex- 
change these  things  with  each  other;  they  go 
home  at  night  to  gardens  and  simple  houses, 
they  find  happy  women  there  and  sunburnt, 
laughing  children.  Their  evenings  are  given 
over  to  the  best  play — play  with  others,  play 
with  masses,  or  play  at  home.  They  have  time 
for  study,  time  for  art,  yet  time  for  one  another. 
Each  loosens  in  himself  and  gives  to  the  world 
his  sublime  possibilities.  A  city  of  toiling  com- 
rades, of  sparkling  homes,  of  wondrous  art,  and 
joyous  festival.  That  is  the  city  I  see  before 
me!"  He  paused.  "And  to  the  coming  of  that 
city  I  dedicate  my  life." 

319 


THE    NINE-TENTHS 

She  sighed. 

"It's  too  bright,  too  good  for  human  nature." 

"Not  for  human  nature,"  he  whispered.  "If 
only  we  are  patient.  If  only  we  are  content  to 
add  our  one  stone  to  its  rising  walls." 

She  pressed  his  hand  again. 

"Joe,"  she  murmured,  "what  do  you  think 
you'll  be  doing  a  year  from  now  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  smiled.  "Perhaps  edit- 
ing— perhaps  working  with  a  strike — perhaps 
something  else.  But  whatever  it  is,  it  will  be 
some  new  adventure — some  new  adventure !' ' 

So  they  entered  that  city  hand  in  hand,  the 
future  all  before  them.  And  they  found  neither 
that  City  of  the  Future  nor  a  City  of  Degrada- 
tion, but  a  very  human  city  full  of  very  human 
people. 


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